


Dragon Age: Tales from the West

by SpartanEngineer



Series: Dragon Age: Tales from the West [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanEngineer/pseuds/SpartanEngineer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hero of Ferelden had disappeared from Thedas, leaving the world behind as it fell into chaos of the Breach. He travelled West in search for the answer to the Calling. What he found is a tale of war that left its mark in history. This is his story about his travels in the West.</p><p>***SpartanEngineer: Massive extension to Dragon Age's world. New places, complex characters, rich story, and detailed history, it is truly another world to explore! This story forms the main body of the Tales of the West series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Find the path that destiny has chosen and see for yourself what lies beyond" - Amell

For the second time in my life, I face the wrath of the Maker in all its terrors.

And I am the only one who can save myself from the fall.

Because I am the Hero of Ferelden.

With an exalted tale which belongs amongst the legends.

Yet I falter upon the sins of my former self.

Twisted by the fear of who I am, and what I had become.

Blinded by the despairing cries of the dying.

As I am no longer a Hero I used to be.

 

But Maker, please.

Give me a chance to be called one once more.

…

_Wynne, on the Hero_

I remember the first time I saw the Hero. He was such a small child then. Born from a noble family of Amell, but taken from that life at such a young age. The Knight-Commander came to me at night and asked me to look after him. I still remember the scruffy boy with skinned knees entering my room under the candlelight. He was unusually quiet for an eight year old child, his eyes red from crying. He seemed to have understood what it meant to become a Circle Mage even then. He cried in my arms long after Greagoir left, and slept so beautifully. Was he a trouble? Oh, the dear boy was plenty of that. If there was any trouble in the Tower, you could bet that it was either Casor or Anders who started it. But the trouble was never big, and sometimes brought smile even to the Templars. One winter day he froze all the water in the tanks. When he was captured, he whined that his bed room “wasn’t cold enough”. He was actually complaining about his thin blankets.

Irving took him as his apprentice when he turned twelve. I kept a close relationship with him throughout his studies, and watched him grow into a handsome young man. He made many friends, quick to befriend anyone new to the Circle, even some Templars and Tranquils. He was undoubtedly popular among girls, too. But he seemed to always remember the fateful day when he entered the Circle. He knew that the Chantry had taken away his mother from him. He always wanted to be free.

He excelled in his studies, and showed particular affinity to Primal school of magic, especially in the arts of fire. I have no doubt he would have become a fine mage. But he was never too proud. Although I would like to say that I taught him about humility, that would be a lie. He was a born leader. He knew when to talk, when to fight, and when to do neither. He knew what was right and wrong, and was willing to stand up to his views. I believe that is the reason why he stood his ground defending Jowan, even after his friend became a Blood Mage. He visited me before he left, saying his goodbyes and shamelessly showing his tears.

Maker had allowed me to see him again at Ostagar before the terrible fight. But I was heartbroken to hear that all Grey Wardens had died, and that Casor was likely among them. You can imagine my delight when I saw him again at the Circle, even though our circumstances were dire. He had become fully-fledged Grey Warden and a Mage, commanding his power with confidence. Had it not been for him, I believe the Ferelden Circle would have disappeared under the blade of the Annulment. Instead, he led us into the chaos and the Fade, and brought us victory.

I accompanied him in his travels after Uldred was killed. Irving made me promise to keep him safe, but both of us knew that Casor was no longer a boy. He had become a man, and perhaps more than that. He was already a Hero.

I’m sure I can continue talking, but there are others who knows the tale better than me. If you are indeed just searching for him… then have faith. He will be bringing miracles to wherever he goes.

…

_King Alistair, on the Hero_

You know, I’m not the best at stories. Leliana’s the one to ask for that. Oh you’re going to talk to her? Then I can skip all the rosy parts. Just remember, she’ll embellish every description of him. Even though she’s the Left Hand of the Divine, they’re still very much into each other.

So my story then? I first met him at Ostagar, after I managed to make another mage storm off. I had heard about the new recruit from Duncan an hour ago. “A fine young lad and a talented mage” was all he said, which really didn’t help when the whole place was filled with “young lads” and “talented mages”. But I knew it was him. His confident walk and a giant staff on his back was just as good as a nametag. And he had a handsome face! I won’t lie, he is very handsome. I was surprised when he approached me without any hesitation, and treated me with respect and friendliness unlike the mage before. I knew then I could trust him, and prayed to the Maker that he would survive the Joining.

He did. And thank the Maker that he did. His ability to set things on fire was invaluable when it came to fighting the darkspawn. He stood by me when we ascended the Tower, trying to make sure that the darkspawn wouldn’t reach me without its head already burnt off. I’m not too sure who went down first in the Tower. I think I did, even though I had an armor and he only had a robe.

I woke up first though. I was quite shocked really, to hear the news of the battle from two Witches. Shocked even more when Morrigan decided to accompany us. But Casor talked me out of my initial compulsion to vomit, and instead asked to trust her. And so I did, like an idiot I thought I was. In Lothering, we met Leliana. Trust me, I thought she was crazy when we first met her. But Casor was convinced otherwise, and decided to take her along. Soon after, he decided to take also along a mass-murdering Qunari with an incredibly emotionless attitude. That’s when I realised that I was in a company of crazies, but Casor told me that I was the crazies of us all. He was like that, always positive, always knowing which way to make people happy. He also flirted shamelessly with the Morrigan and that latecomer, Zevran. When I reminded him that one was an assassin sent to kill us, and the other was a bitch of a human being, he simply smiled and replied that he was an apostate acting as a Grey Warden, and so he was no better. I don’t think he ever slept with either of them though.

Just a sidenote, if anybody asks who saved Ferelden during the Fifth Blight, the correct answer is a group of travelling lunatics.

As a fighter, he was quite literally the force of nature, striking down lightning, or calling upon the earth to rumble at his will. His eagerness usually brought him to the front of the action, even though mages aren’t particular good at fighting at close quarters. He often received nasty hits, but he would quickly shake it off and laughing as he bled. I learnt later that he had learnt blood magic and was using his injuries to restore his mana. It’s strange now, but I never thought to confront him about it. He never used others’ blood; only his own. And only when things were desperate. I think he understood the responsibilities of power far before anyone had to teach him about it.

I accompanied him as he led a path of miracles, saving the Arl and his son, Connor without any sacrifices. I was really glad that he decided to go down that path. I didn’t want the Arl to wake up to find his son dead or his wife sacrificed. I think he had felt responsible since it was his friend who had caused all the commotion. The mage Jowan was executed by Casor, although I know that they shed tears before he was killed. He led an expedition into the Deep Roads as if it was a casual stroll down the lakeside. But he was complaining a lot. You won’t believe how much he was mumbling about “stupid politics” and “stupid royalty” on the way. I’m sure he didn’t care that I heard it because frankly, I agreed. But every now and then he would hint to me that I was not amongst those he considered “stupid royalty”. Anyway, he also brought peace to the Dalish people. Actually, I think that’s when he started to wield a sword – during a quest to find Witherfang. Did I ever tell you that he was a good swordfighter by the end of our journey? He didn’t use magic to take down the Archdemon you know, just a piece of sharp iron stick. He knew how to wield an axe enough to have a friendly sparring with Oghren. But something tells me it was magic.

Where was I? Oh yes. He found the Urn of Sacred Ashes. He defeated Loghain. He united Ferelden under one banner of Grey Wardens. He also made me a King of Ferelden. I don’t know how or why I agreed to it. But I think it’s safe to assume that he gave me the courage to lead.  And he defeated the Archdemon. No, he insisted that “we” defeated Archdemon. How we managed it, I’m still not sure. I just remember lots of blood, some screaming, everyone yelling and a blast. I thought he had died, as Riordan said, but he cried out after the blast, alive and angry that he was crushed underneath a giant snake’s head. When he got him out, he was grinning from ear to ear.

Not the story of the stoic hero that you know of? Well, people forget that Casor was still a person. And a good friend. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing, regardless of where he is.

…

_Leliana, on the Hero_

You want to know who the Hero was? Well, you have come to the right person. But I can’t guarantee that I will tell you the honest truth. He is my love after all.

I first met him in a Lothering inn as a weary traveller seeking to replenish his company’s supplies. He was very young and handsome, with fair white skin, sharp nose and stylishly short black hair. He wore plain mage robes and was carrying a staff that was just as tall as he. His was tall, had broad shoulders, and a grand posture. Did I mention his eye colour? It changes. From darkest of browns to a beautiful shade of green. It’s fascinating to watch them change. He and his friends were very noticeable; two apostate mages, one soldier, and one Mabari hound don’t usually enter an inn unnoticed. A couple of soldiers from Denerim got up when they enetered, and I realised that they were going to fight. I tried to stop them and help the travellers, but it was he who ended up helping me. That is when I realised that the Maker meant for me to go with him. Casor greeted me graciously, and accepted my help without hesitation. I was surprised when he didn’t disagree with my vision. He claimed that, if the Maker finally decided to return to us, then he wasn’t going to object.

I soon saw that he had a scarred soul, just like me. He had been trapped in the Tower for all his life. Just imagine, being always watched by men with blades since you were a child. And when the first taste of freedom comes, it comes with the burden of being a Grey Warden. He accepted his position with honor, doing whatever he could to make the world a little better than before. His attitude really attracted me towards him.

He had his likes and dislikes, just like a normal person. He liked to read books. He always had one in his belt, reading whenever he had the time. I’m not sure how he managed to find so many books, but I counted at least fifty throughout our journey. He also had an uncanny ability to persuade people with his words. His soft voice was always full of confidence and wisdom beyond his age. He loved apples, but didn’t mind whatever he was eating. He even enjoyed Alistair’s horrible stew! He did have a weakness to cookies though. He and Sten often fought over the last one, both of them wordlessly glaring at each other until one blinked first. One thing he hated with passion was the idea of nobility. He would always say that a position should be given to the person with virtues, not the person with the correct surname. Even though he was from a noble family himself, he despised other nobles.

He also loved sleeping without a tent, feeling the morning dew with his face or watching the night sky. We would sometimes sit together, watching the stars until the dawn came. I would talk about the great tales of wars and love, and he would listen quietly. One day, I fell asleep too early. He wrapped me tightly with his own blankets and rekindled the fire. I woke up to see him with his staff drawn, practising silently against the shadows. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be in his arms. I had fallen in love! I tried to resist, but I knew such efforts were useless. I had to tell him.

When I later told him about my emotions, he was delighted, but also so very sad. He told me that he wasn’t ready yet, and wished me to rethink. Maybe he was too young, being only twenty. Or maybe he was too shy, I did not know then, but his words broke my heart. I think I grew cold to him after that, watching him talk with Morrigan with jealousy.

Sometime later, Morrigan reproached me in what I thought was anger. She said that she wasn’t fond of “sharing”, and I just assumed I had done something without knowing. It was only later that I realised the she was talking about Casor. It occurred to me that she would not approach me like so had Casor simply bed her. Then I knew that he was consciously avoiding becoming too close with all of us. He was feeling the grasp of death, and didn’t want to burden any of us. That made me love him even more.

Long later, when he helped me to finally escape my past, he came to speak with me, as he often would when we set camp. I tried again to speak of my emotions. Before I managed to finish, he leaned forward kissed me deeply. Afterwards, he apologised, but I was too happy to correct him. It was the most joyous moment of my life.

He was so naïve when it came to bedding women. That same night, he asked if he could sleep with me, which I consented too happily. But instead of making love, he simply slept by my side. I had to spend that night confused yet content, embarrassed at my desires and curious as to how someone could be so pure. But he was never afraid to show his love for me. He would walk up and hug me from the back, resting his chin gently on my shoulders. We sometimes kissed in the open, much to Wynne’s disapproval. And he found flowers for me; the Andraste’s Grace, which soon became a reminder of not only my mother, but of him. Eventually, I gave into my desires and asked him to bed me. But he didn’t understand what I wanted, instead opting to write his journal. It too some words to make him understand, and he flustered adorably when he did. But, he was a passionate lover, when it came to it. Am I making you queasy? Oh I won’t tell you all the details. That night is only for us.

He did come to me on the eve of the final battle. His expression was dark as he told me that he had to do something he did not want to. It took many words to finally understand what had happened. I was shocked at first, but I soon dismissed my thoughts. I was not going to lose him, not after what we had shared. I understood that it was for the best. His guilty expression didn’t change, but I think he was relieved by my words.

I was there on top of Fort Drakon on that fateful day, and saw him fight. He was expressionless, his eyes only filled with cold determination. Fighting with blood, magic and blade, I saw that he was fit amongst the heroes of the great past. Even at that darkest moment, I smiled, knowing that he will succeed. And he did.

We went on many adventures even after the Blight had ended. Sometimes we were together, sometimes we were alone. But even when we were separated physically, we are never too far away at heart. We have both become important people, and our duties often superseded our desires, but I know that we will always be together in the end. I always desire for that day to come.

I cannot tell you exactly where he is now. He is in the lands beyond Thedas, in the countries which have never heard of darkspawn. He is seeking for an answer to stop his Calling. His mission is important to me just as it is important to him. Even in these dark times, I have faith in him. And when the Inquisition is finished, I hope to leave my position and finally join him. For good this time.

…

Casor Amell has disappeared from Thedas. He is considered one of the last living Arcane Warriors and a self-taught Battlemage. He has received forgiveness in using Blood Magic in face of the Archdemon. He was later found to have a child with Morrigan, thought the child was never condemned. He saved both the City and Vigil’s Keep during the Amaranthine Conflict, rebuilding both within five years. However, his sparing of the Architect has come under severe criticism amongst the Grey Wardens. After playing the Grand Game (according to him, he is playing for “those who cannot” – the peasants) and attempting to mediate the Mage-Templar War, he was called to the Weisshaupt Fortress in 9:39 Dragon. No-one (except, perhaps, for Sister Nightingale) has heard from him since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX UPDATED: Forward (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11175205)


	2. From Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Everything begins. Everything ends." - Tevinter saying

The view was terrifying from this vantage point. The sky was a smoldering mess, mountains red with belching fire. The ground was black, resembling the Blighted grounds after the darkspawn had feasted upon the dead. Few streams of water punctured the land, steaming as if in agony. Even on good days, it was difficult to see far, and every breath caused a cough of irritation. It was little wonder that the lands of the West has been shrouded in mystery: this was the edge of Thedas... the End of the World.

“A good place to label as the ‘End’.” Casor murmured.

He adjusted his mouth cover. He wore a large black robe, and underneath shined a decorative armor adorned with blue. On his chest, inscribed in silver, was a proud double Griffin heraldry of a Warden Commander. His whole body was grey from soot, but metallic brooches shone with recent polish. An aura of mysterious white hung about him, a force of calm magic that originated from his mind. Two leather bound books were hooked to the back of his belt, along with the ominously-named ‘murder knife’. His gaze was peaceful yet deep with thought, pondering over what it meant to cross this place and move into the beyond…

A figure emerged from the shadows behind him. His feet made soft crunching noises in the ash, leaving a trail of footprints. He joined Casor at the plateau, taking brief time to catch his breath.

“Commander, news for you.”

Casor turned his head and nodded, signaling him to continue.

“The Mouse Ear agent has arrived Commander, and so has a crow from Orlais. Here.”

The messenger produced a small scroll from his sleeve and handed it to Casor. He broke the red Orlesian seal and opened the letter, his eyes swiftly travelling down the smooth vellum. The messenger waited patiently for him to finish reading, him too gazing at the terror-inspiring sight. Soon, Casor rolled up the scroll and handed it back to the messenger.

“I guess I saw this coming. I truly worry about the future of Thedas… Call everyone in. Even the watchers. I want a full meeting tonight, two hours after sunset. Tell the Mouse Ear agent to meet me outside my cabin in half an hour.” Casor ordered. The messenger gave an affirmative nod, then left quickly. Casor returned his gaze to the landscape.

He reached up into his armor and pulled out his locket. It was a tear-drop shaped piece of gold, about the size of an acorn. It hung from his neck on a silver chain, usually hidden beneath his clothes. Casor rolled it back and forth with his thumb and forefinger, whispering quietly to himself. He gave it a kiss, then put it back beneath his robe.

Turning to leave, he threw a ball of fire into the sky. Just for fun.

…

Casor walked to his cabin, shaking off ash as he went. His mind still raced through the message from the scroll. He glanced up, drew a sharp breath of surprise, and then stopped walking. There stood the Mouse Ears agent… whatever he had expected, it wasn’t _her_.

The female Qunari approached him, her steps firm. “Greetings, Commander of the Grey. You have requested my presence here.”

She was tall but somewhat short for a Qunari, being perhaps only an inch taller than Casor. Her stooping posture made her look even shorter (for compensation, it made her look menacing). She had metallic grey skin, bright yellow eyes, a previously-broken crooked nose, and silver-white hair that flowed down to her shoulders. Her horns were cut short, leaving only two small stumps on her head. A long scar hooked from her right eye and up into her forehead. Her clothes were that of a generic archer – ashen leather cuirass with tattered overcoat that made the wearer look like he or she was wrapped in a bundle of rags. Her reflex bow, made of plain oakwood, hung disproportionally on her back. Casor mentally likened her to the gargoyle statues that once decorated the Circled Tower exterior.

“Nice to meet you. My name is Casor Amell. Your name is…?”

He offered his hand. The agent shook it emotionlessly. Casor felt her tough coarse grip that re-emphasized her fighting history.

“I am referred to as Tal.”

Casor walked to the cabin and pushed open the wooden door. Inside was a basic room consisting of a round table set, few storage chests, and a door to the bedroom. Though simple, it was the most luxurious cabin in their camp.

“Take a seat. Any drinks?”

Tal shook her head slowly. She sat down, leaning forward and onto the table. The chair gave out a little groan of pain at her weight. Casor produced a flask from a chest and drank, savoring the delicious coolness that cleaned his mouth. He took off the outer garment and hung it on the wall, intensely aware of the Qunari’s scrutinizing gaze. He returned to the table, quills and notepad in hand.

“So, you are here to guide us into the West. Although I have many questions to ask you, I’m sure we’ll have time to speak later. So I will ask you the most pressing of the questions.”

Tal nodded, her eyes boring into Casor’s.

“What do you know of the Artefact?”

Tal shook her head. “Nothing.”

Casor dipped the quill into the ink pot, then rolled it around to spread the dark oil.

“Then who is the person that sent the message – or a vision?”

“Seer Pervanti.”

“Okay... Then who is this Seer Pervanti?”

“Seer Pervanti is a human Seer.”

Casor wrote down the name and waited for more. Only silence came. Qunaries! Why couldn’t they ever be sociable?

“Okay, who are Seers?”

“They are Bas Saarebas. Mages, in your tongue. They are like Ariqun, the priests, in the West.”

“Mage Priests? The Chantry’s going to have a fit. So, there’s no Chantry in the West?”

“No.”

“That was a stupid question. I’ll give you that. Wait, so do these Seers lead some other religion?”

“No.”

Casor growled in the inside, remembering conversations with Sten many years ago. Why didn’t any of the Qunari simply speak freely? Why, for Andraste’s sake? Why?

“Why did you say that these Seers are like priests?”

“People listen to them.”

The interview had already become too painful to continue, so Casor decided to cross out countless questions on his list. He moved his quill to the most important one.

“Alright. This journey ahead. How long will it take? How many people do you think I can bring?”

Tal thought for a while, her gaze still held against Casor’s eyes. He wasn’t sure whether to look away or stare back, so he began to massage his eyes.

“It has taken me nine days. Lands ahead are perilous. Take no more than two with you. Water holes will not support more than four.”

Casor’s hands pressed down firmly at his eyeballs and did not move. He went through the list of Wardens and decided on one, good old friend as his companion. The second spot… he had to reserve it for the Chantry. Favor for a favor. Playing the Grand Game was never easy. If he died in the West, the debt he owed might fall on Leliana, and he couldn’t risk that. The rest of the Grey Wardens will have to build a fort here.

Casor finished his self-massage and opened his eyes.

“Thank you, Tal. Please, rest here in this cabin. Use whatever you wish. We will leave tonight.”

…

“Warden Dyon’s just arrived. That’s all of us, Commander.”

Casor nodded. A group of thirty Grey Wardens stood silently in the dark camp clearing, lit by torchlights that protruded from the wooden buildings. They were his brothers and sisters. Dwarves, elves, humans. Mages, nobles, beggars, warriors. All of them. He was proud to be among them, and they were proud to be under his command.

Some others stood at the edge of the clearing – opportunistic merchants, a minor noblemen, and a group of Chantry ‘heralds’. Casor hadn’t particularly welcomed them, but hadn’t banished them from the camp either, making them the unwanted party crashers. Casor wanted them to stay that way. He climbed up a small stool that served as a makeshift podium, and the soon silence settled over the camp. He cleared his throat twice before speaking.

“Wardens! Listen up! I’ve got only bad news, but perhaps one of them is only bad for me. The first one. The Orlesians’ are going mad with politics as usual. [some laughter, some groans, many frowns from the party crashers] There’s a fight brewing between Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard. If my instincts aren’t rotten yet, this is going to be a war. That means everyone in Orlais is arming themselves up, getting ready for war. And so, they no longer see small, far off crazy missions like ours. So we’ve effectively lost all support from Orlais and the Chantry. They sent me a message that the supports may arrive ‘infrequently’. That’s Orlesian way of saying bugger off. [laughter from the Wardens, again. Casor had granted everyone a bottle of wine yesterday, and its alcoholic magic had not yet worn off] Lucky for us, the location here seems quite sustainable. That’s why I want a fort here. A stone fort. Self-sustained. Warden Gada, you were a stonemason before you joined us, right?”

A moon-faced dwarf grunted in response.

“I put you in charge in constructing a fort here. Let’s call it the World’s Edge, because this that’s what this place is. I want a sustainable, long-term fort that will serve as a forward base to those wishing to travel to the West. I also want you to start researching this area. There’s a reason why darkspawn couldn’t cross this place and into the West. The First Warden wants to know why.”

An old elven Warden put his hand up. Casor nodded at him.

“Why would we need a forward base here? Are we not going to the West?”

“No. That leads precisely to my next news. Our guide into the West arrived. She told me that no, we cannot all go to the West. Only three people, other than our guide, can. This is because of lack of drinking water on our path there. I have already chosen my companions. Warden Sigrun, you’re coming with me.”

There was a murmur of surprise amongst the Wardens (about the ‘not-everyone-can-go’ part, not ‘Warden-Sigrun-is-going’ part. Sigrun had gained a lot of respect and favor amongst the Order, and everyone knew of her accomplishments during Darkspawn Civil War). Sigrun grinned at Casor, the same, familiar grin from eight years ago, and made her way to the front.

There was a sudden outburst of anger amongst the party crashers, one justified Casor’s nickname for them. Their anger was justifiable; they were here to do business after all, and the news that they would not be able to go to the West was the last thing they wanted to hear. Casor held up his hand to ask for silence, but had to wait for some time to get it.

“I understand that this may cause some problems to our guests. That is why I will leave a trail behind, so that anyone can follow. You Wardens know what I am talking about. If anybody _does_ follow, then do not go more than three at a time, and do not go without waiting for at least a week after the previous group. This is to keep the water holes alive. I ask the Wardens to focus on your construction and research here, but that is not an order. If anybody do want to desperately go to the West, then you are welcome. Alright. That’s the news. I will leave tonight, after most of you go to sleep, so this is a good-bye. I wish you all well, and stay strong. Remember our oath. In War, victory. In Peace, vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice. Remember that we are the Grey Wardens. From this moment on, I relinquish my position of Commander to Constable-Warden Wime. Congratulations, new Commander.”

…

There was a fare-well celebration among the Grey Wardens, despite Casor’s insistence that it wasn’t necessary. Grey Wardens were a stubborn bunch, especially so when food and alcohol were at stake. They still called him a Commander, and when he pointed out that he was now technically a basic Warden, they called him the Hero of Ferelden. He gave up after that, drinking and laughing with his friends for one last time.

The guests were decidedly gloomy, with some were already packing to return home. The Chantry heralds stood around in a circle, whispering quietly. Together, they gave him a collective glance. Casor ignored them. After the party died down, Casor slipped into his cabin. The Mouse Ears agent was gone, presumably already at the camp gates. He took his casual time, walking around the cabin to collect his thoughts and belongings. He neatly packaged his inventory into a large rucksack, walked around the cabin for one last time, and made his way to the meeting point. Few Wardens who were sober waved after him.

…

Tal stood outside the moonlight, her figure reduced to a dark outline. Sigrun right beside, unfazed by their drastic height difference. She wore a dwarven Grey Warden Scout armor with the iconic blue chainmail and silver Griffin breastplate. However, unlike the stock-standard Warden armor, she wore a Legion of the Dead symbol on her shoulders to signify her continuing loyalty to death. Her back stowed two double-edged axes, uniquely Sigrun, placed so as to not to interfere with her rucksack. Comically, her bag size was almost identical to Tal’s, further highlighting their height difference. By the look on her face, Sigrun had obviously tried to talk to her new companion, though it was clear that no proper dialogue ever happened. Her tattooed face broke into a smile when she finally saw Casor approach.

“Commander! No, sorry. It’s not Commander anymore. I don’t know what to call you now.” Sigrun chirped brightly.

“Just Warden Amell. But we’ve known each other long enough to drop formalities outside the Order, Sigrun.” Casor replied, nodding at Tal that ended in a one-way greeting.

“You’re right, I guess. It’s been eight years already. Phew! Time flies when you’re dead! Really though, what should I call you?” Sigrun asked.

“People usually have names for that purpose, you know? Casor. Or Amell. Both are fine. At convenient times, Hero, but try avoiding that. You know exactly what I am talking about.” Casor answered with a grin.

“I do. That was funny back then. We should do that again sometime. Alright. Cas-or? Ca-sor? Amell. Amell! That’s easier to say. I’ll stick to that.”

Sigrun flicked an uncomfortable glance at the Qunari, and her expression begged him to help her. Casor was tempted to laugh.

“I believe official greetings are in order! Tal, this is Sigrun, a Legion of the Dead scouts-women and a Senior Grey Warden. Sigrun, this is Tal, agent of the Mouse Ears and our guide.”

They shook hands uncomfortably, and only because the situation called for a handshake. Just as things were starting to get awkward again, a loud clang surprised them. Tal immediately put her hand on her belt where Casor spied a hilt of a dagger.

“Andraste’s a-, no I shouldn’t say that. _Groan_. Oh look. Hello!”

A figure emerged from the shadows. He wore full Templar armor, complete with full-face helmet, Templar shield and Templar mace. Judging by the snowy chill around the metallic head, his weapon was enchanted with a Frost rune. He also carried a rucksack comparable to that of Tal and Sigrun’s, though it was plastered almost childishly with Chantry symbols. Casor instinctively reacted, summoning a Fireball in his hands, but he soon dissipated the spell: It seems that he was still trapped in the past. As they say, you can take a Mage out the Circle, but you can’t take the Circle out of a Mage.

“Greetings. I am Casor Amell, as you may know already. And you are…”

The figure approached him slowly, as if approaching a dangerous animal.

“Sinnan. Sinnan Surana. You must be the robe. Hero of Ferelden, as they say.” The Templar squeaked. His voice was unnaturally high, much like a child who first learnt how to read the Chant.

“That is an old title. I presume you are the one that the Chantry heralds chose?”

“Yes. I am the Messenger of the Chant of Light. It is a holy burden, one that I hope to fulfill to the best of my ability. By Maker’s blessing, I will do so.” Sinnan continued, his voice nagging at Casor’s ears.

“Surana… That’s an elven name.” Casor inquired, peeved by the Templar’s clear obsession to the Chantry.

“And what if I am? Do you have a problem with elves, _mage_?”

Casor was shocked. An _elven_ Templar? That didn’t seem possible. Not that he had a problem with it – oh no, he would have gladly supported elven equality. It was that, in all honesty, the Chantry was racist. They would have never allowed an elf into the Templar order. Neither would any Templars agree to an elf joining their ranks. This Sinnan might be the first elven Templar – ever.

“Oh no no no. Definitely not. I’m surprised – honored, actually – to meet an elven Templar. Welcome to the group.” Casor replied, mustering as much friendliness as he could.

Sinnan grunted in response.

Tal interjected “Why are we standing here? If we are leaving, we should leave.”

She did have a fair point.

“Yes. Let’s re-do our official introductions. I am Warden Casor Amell. Either Casor or Amell is fine.”

He nodded to Sigrun, who took the cue.

“My turn. I am Warden Sigrun. I don’t have a house name. Just Sigrun is good.”

“I am referred to as Tal.”

“I am Templar Sinnan Surana, Messenger of the Chant of Light. I am with you to serve the Maker, and not a robe.”

Casor gritted his teeth at the last comment. Sinnan made it clear that he was a die-hard Templar. He realized that the trip ahead was going to be difficult unless he somehow eased Sinnan’s fanaticism. He would also have to somehow get Tal to talk. He was glad to have chosen Sigrun as the companion – at least he could talk to her freely.

This was going to be a long journey ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX UPDATED: Casor Amell (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11223520)


	3. A Short Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It always fascinates me to discover what's behind, beyond, and beheld." - from Lullaby for the Apprentice

Tal marched ahead, silent as always. Casor trudged a few steps behind her, screaming on the inside at his own filthiness. It had been three days since they left; three days since the last bath. The ash-filled air and lack of cleaning water only worsened the situation. Casor felt the grime rubbing off his clothes, despite his attempts to clean himself with various spells. Why, for all those years of research, hadn’t magic yet figured out how to clean someone?

At least he wasn’t in pain. The terrain, though harsh, was thankfully soft to walk on, and his journey-hardened legs held up without trouble. Sigrun marched next to him, her chatter paused for the moment. They were nearing meal time, and Sigrun was always quiet when she was hungry. She was keeping up to their speed despite her legs being half the length of Tal’s. Sinnan lagged behind, struggling in the full Templar gear. He never took off his armor, even while sleeping, and always had his mace handy. Only when eating did he lift his helmet, but only high enough to put food through.

Their general morale was quite low. Maybe it was because they marched from the crack of dawn until three hours after sunset, or maybe it was because neither Tal nor Sinnan wanted to talk. Either way, Casor felt gloomy, with only thing keeping him sane being Sigrun’s occasional jokes.

“Lunch, anybody?” He finally asked.

“Yes _please_. I am _starving_.” Sigrun broke out of her silence. Sinnan, far behind, cawed ‘yes’.

They looked at Tal, who always pointed at the nearest place where they could rest. Sure enough, she wordlessly nodded to a collection of boulders some distance away, just visible through the ever-persistent ash. Sigrun picked up her pace, quickly running past him and Tal. Casor followed after her, swinging his bag forward to unpack the food. By the time he reached the resting place, arms awkwardly full with food and bag straps, Sigrun had laid out the cooking utensils and built a makeshift stove.

“I swear you move the fastest when you are hungry. I should get you to fight after starving you.” Casor joked, puffing at the sudden sprint.

“Don’t worry. I’m always starving. Quick! We need fire!”

Casor dumped his bag and spread out the food. He created a small fire and held it under the stove. The water quickly boiled, and Sigrun got to work. She had picked up incredible cooking skills over the years, making full use of her poison-making skill as well as all the variety of surface foodstuffs. She had quickly surpassed his own miserable attempts at cooking, becoming famous amongst the Wardens for her stew. Casor sat down cross-legged on the ashen dirt, his hands still maintaining the flame.

“I wish we had some wood.” Casor complained.

“We’re lucky to even have enough water for a stew.” Sigrun answered, her hands flying across various ingredients.

Tal reached the ‘camp’ and sat down, unloading her pack.

“We are halfway through the Ashes.” She commented.

That was Tal? Did she just _talk_?

“The Ashes. Is that what this place is called?” He asked, hoping to snag this opportunity.

“Yes. Very few cross it safely. But the only challenge is water.” Tal continued. She brushed off the soot off her clothes in a very deliberate manner.

“Amell! Fire here as well, please!” Sigrun pointed to a large pan with her knife. In her other hand was a piece of vegetable that looked surprisingly fresh despite the three-day mashup in his bag. He moved his left hand under the pan to create a second cooking fire. His pose resembled a stepped-on frog, but he didn’t really care how comical he looked as long as his food was warm.

“What’s beyond? Where exactly are we going?” Casor asked, twisting his neck around to look at Tal.

“Just beyond the Ashes is the Blackwood forest, the eastern outskirts of the larger, Etala Tree-lands. Seer Pervanti currently awaits you near Etala lake.”

Sinnan entered the camp, sitting down on a boulder. He sighed, gave out a cough, and overall made sure that he looked pissed off. He glanced over at Casor and murmured something (Casor was sure it was Canticle of Transfigurations 1:2).

“Etala… sounds very elvish. Does that mean that there are elves in the West?”

Sinnan shot him a look: or at least, his helmet did. That man was way too sensitive about racism. Hadn’t it occurred to him that many of his close friends were elven? And that he had actually supported elven equality? Hadn’t he heard _nothing_ about what happened in Denerim?

Sinnan’s Templar shield reflected light into Casor’s eyes. He lurched unconsciously, tripling the amount of mana flow in his body. Fire erupted in his hand, briefly engulfing both stoves and burning his fingers. A frantic shaking of the hands did little to ease the pain.

“Ah! Shiii… Ooooooouch. That hurt.” Casor whined.

“What was that? Are you alright?” Sigrun (who barely even blinked at the sudden explosion) asked, holding the pots and pans well away from him. Casor got the impression that she was protecting the food and not him.

“I think I’m alright.” He blew twice at his hands and re-started the fire. Sigrun gave him a concerned glance before going straight back into cooking.

“Regarding your question…” Tal asked, her face showing a tiny bit of concern. For a Qunari, that tiny bit was very significant.

“Thank you. Yes. Please continue. Are there elves? Humans? Dwarves? Qunari? Do they even speak the same language?” Casor asked with a crumpled smile.

“All races of Bas exist in the West. Ancient dwarven language is lost. Trade tongue is spoken wildly. There are Tevinter words in that tongue. There has been attempts to use old Elven amongst elves. Most writing is done in variant of Tevene. There are no followers of the Qun in these lands.”

Tal’s brief speech was enough to set off Casor’s wild curiosity. So there were dwarves, humans, and elves here in these lands! What history did this land have? Were they similar to that of Thedas? No, of course the history was different. They never had to deal with darkspawn. Then what culture, religion, views, and knowledge grew here? What kind of world would he see? He couldn’t wait to get his hands on the books… The books! Written in _Tevene_? If Tal was speaking the truth, then he would have to learn Tevene, and fast (he already knew some Tevene– best of the magic books were admittedly from the Imperium, so he had learnt to read it back in the Circle. His trip to Minrathus helped to bolster his speaking. But his knowledge of Tevene was, at best, spotty.). He had to get a hold of these books. Take some back to Thedas. Maker! Books from another world are worth more than the gold equal in weight!

Casor caught himself before his inquisitive mind sped too far. On the side note, speaking of language…

“Tal. Your name in Qunlat, it means ‘truth’, doesn’t it? Like, from Tal-Vashoth? The True Grey Ones?” Casor asked.

Tal looked at him with minimal expression. At least she didn’t brood like Sten.

“Tal is not a name. It is what I seek. The Truth.” She finally replied.

“Ah. So is it like Sten? A position?” Casor asked again.

“No. I am labelled as Tal-Vashoth, though I still follow the Qun. Tal is not a position of the Qun. It is simply what I seek.”

Casor nodded in quasi-understanding. From what he could deduce (basing off his long-forgotten attempts to decode Sten’s logic and subsequent research into the Qun), the Qunari in front of him was a person who was exiled by the Qun. Instead of suicide (the standard procedure among the followers of the Qun who were rejected by the Qun), she decided to live on, dedicating her life to finding ‘Tal’. What ‘truth’ she was searching for was still a mystery, but Casor settled with this for now.

“I think I understand… A noble cause. Good luck.”

Tal gave him another expressionless stare. Casor knew that there was a hint of approval somewhere behind that face. Meanwhile, Sigrun had finished cooking, and poked at his forearm.

“The meal’s ready! Geez, I need to stop myself from eating it while I was cooking! Thanks for the fire.”

Casor extinguished the flame while licking his lips at the delicious aroma. Before anything, he formed a little cup with his hands and re-ignited the fire. Judging from the way the flame sputtered to life, he had already spent almost a quarter of his mana, which was far more than he normally did on a cooking fire. Casor knew that the short burst of flame had drained his magic, but he could not shake the sinister knowledge of his failing strength…

He tried not to think of the alternatives and instead focused his attention at the mouth-watering spectacle of cooked vegetables and Sigrun’s signature soup. Sigrun separated the serves onto a large bowl, handing them out enthusiastically while nibbling on a piece of carrot. She gave the last one to Sinnan, who thanked her and started praying.

Casor watched him as he ate his meal (“The soup’s great again, Sigrun.” “My pleasure. A bit of nug meat would have been nice though.” “And elfroot.” “Bleh! Not with this soup. Elfroot is too bitter when cooked.”). Sinnan had cautiously unpacked a copy of the Canticles and was praying rigorously. He was an absolute believer, borderline fanatic. Casor had previously thought Leliana was a devout follower, but she was mild compared to Sinnan. Every action he did was because of the Maker. Everything he did was a sin to the Andraste. Most importantly, Sinnan considered Casor as a Maleficar (though, Casor admitted, he was justified in some ways, for he was a Blood Mage). Casor sighed, trying to think up of a way to convince Sinnan that he wasn’t going to suddenly turn into an abomination.

Sinnan must have heard him sigh, because he suddenly stopped his prayers and turned his helmet towards him. He got up, picked up his shield and mace, and walked towards him. Casor slid into the Fade Shroud, expecting trouble.

“Why do you use your magic, _mage_? Are you a Maleficar? Do you believe in the Maker and His prophetess and bride, Andraste?” Sinnan roared.

Both Sigrun and Tal stopped eating and looked up. It had occurred to Casor that neither of the two were Andrastian, so they had no idea what Sinnan was talking about.

“Why is it that when anybody asks that question, what they are really saying is ‘do you follow the Chantry?’” Casor replied, taking another mouthful of the sweet soup.

“ _Stand, Maleficar! And answer my question!_ ”

The situation was escalating way too quickly. This was the reason why Mage-Templar war broke out. Fanatics and their fanaticism. Casor placed his soup down on a rock and stood up, still wearing the Fade Shroud.

“I believe in the Maker. I believe that Andraste was a prophetess. But I don’t follow the Chantry. Well, I like the Chant of Light, but I have my disagreements and liberties.” Casor replied.

Sinnan paused, his helmet failing to hide his surprise and horror.

“Why? How could you believe, yet not follow?”

“You’d be hard-pressed to find a mage in Thedas who like the Chantry. You know, with the Circle business. People don’t really like it if they live in a Maker-damned prison all their lives.” Casor answered.

“Mages are a threat! They must be kept in control.”

“By cornering them and completely depriving them of freedom, family, and even love? And suppressing them with fear and blade? Tools that clearly won’t work if they _do_ become an abomination or maleficar? Not a good idea. There’s a reason why Kirkwall Rebellion happened. Maker! Even elves aren’t imprisoned like us!” Casor cried out, speaking from an innate anger that unexpectedly boiled over.

“Us elves aren’t _dangerous_!” Sinnan retorted.

“Most mages aren’t dangerous either! And magic can be used to do good things. Even your mace is magic! Also, on no-where in the Chant of Transfigurations does it say that Mages must be controlled in group prisons!” Casor answered hotly.

“Then… Then… Then how do you _believe_? How do you believe in the Light with a corrupt soul?” Sinnan had obviously not expected such an angry reaction. Casor began to relax a little and regained his self-control.

“Why is anything non-Chantry corrupt and evil? Well, I saw the Sacred Ashes. I _touched_ the Sacred Ashes. I saw its magic, and I decided to believe that She was indeed Holy. There, happy?”

Sinnan stood silent, his eyes burgling out behind his helmet. He seemed to retreat a little, half out of fear, half out of awe.

“You… you saw the Sacred Ashes?”

“Please don’t tell me you haven’t read one of the Brother Genitivi’s works? The In Pursuit of Knowledge: The Travels of a Chantry Scholar? I know he isn’t always accurate, but he was right about me. It says there smack bang on the first page – ‘ _Dedicated to all the Faithful. Special thanks to the Hero of Ferelden for helping me find the Ashes.’_ ”

“I…” Sinnan faltered.

Casor smiled warmly as he slid out of the Shroud. He had won the argument, and this was finally a chance to ease Sinnan.

“Sinnan, there is no need to fear me. As long as I have Duty, I will not succumb to a demon.”

Casor smiled internally, congratulating himself at a double entendre that no-one else knew. Sinnan stood thinking for some time, staring into his eyes, then nodded.

“Umm, Amell? I think you should re-heat the soup. It won’t taste as nice cold.” Sigrun advised.

…

True to Tal’s words, it took another three days to cross the Ashes. Their supplies were starting to dwindle by then, especially water. Even with regular fillings at water holes, their flasks went skinnier and skinnier. Sigrun didn’t have enough water to make a stew for the last day. Casor didn’t mind, mainly because Sinnan had opened up since their showdown (Tal receded back into her silence, though Casor did notice that her gestures were more animated then before). Sinnan was turned out to be almost as talkative as Sigrun, lightening the mood considerably. He told tales of his past and babbled on about the Chant at Sigrun (who pretended to listen while emptying Sinnan’s pockets).

Sinnan admitted that he wasn’t officially incorporated into the Templar Order. Rather, he had saved a Templar’s life many years ago, and that man had taught him Templar arts in return. Having been born in Antiva from a rich elven family (something that Casor knew was possible, as he discovered during his visit to Antiva to see Zevran), he was a deep believer of the Chantry since he was young. When he saw the opportunity to do something for the Chantry, he jumped on board. Although the Chantry had disapproved his presence, the Knight-Commander of Antiva had allowed him to say. A series of fortunate events (and his ability to literally repeat the whole Chant of Light backwards) allowed him to be elected as part of the Messengers of the Chant. Back at the Grey Warden camp, he had begged and begged with the other heralds until he was allowed to go to the West.

“So, you are here for your devotion to the Chantry and your incredible persistence!” Sigrun complemented.

“I am here to serve.” Sinnan replied with an air of smugness.

“You said you remember all of the Chant thingies?”

“Yes.”

“Can I test you?”

“You do not know the Chant!”

“I thought this was the Chant?”

“My book! How did you…!”

“Ha, ha! Old habits die hard! Or they never die. Here, it was just a joke.”

“Do not ever do that again! It is not an object to play with!”

“Alright.”

The two chatted away as they neared the Blackwood forest.

…

“Who named this place?” Casor asked, picking up a little speed to catch up with Tal. The dark trees gnarled at them as they approached the forest edge which was teeming with sinister-looking barks and bushes.

“I do not know.” Tal replied. She shook herself down as she walked, creating a little cloud of dust and ash. Casor mimicked her motions, then rubbed at his Griffins to give them a little shine. He will clean them properly once they settled down for the night.

“Whoever he or she was, they named it well.”

Although the sun was still out, Blackwoods were very dark, the haze from the Ashes still persisting deep into the tangled greenery. The path were only just visible.

“Hey Tal, wait up. We’ll get lost here if we split.”

Tal shook her head but stood still, allowing time for the dwarf and the elf to catch up. The pair gradually retreated into silence, also shaking off ash and feeling the gloom of the forest. Casor wondered why Tal shook her head, but he didn’t have to wait long to find out. There was a fling of a bowstring, followed by an arrow aimed at Casor’s head. He managed to summon his Honor before it hit, and the arrow quivered mid-air, stuck in his shield. Casor pulled it out and saw that the arrow had a blunt tip.

His illuminated the path ahead with his Honor, but there was no sign of the archer who had fired this edgeless arrow. Both Sigrun and Sinnan drew their weapons in surprise, moving into a defensive stance. A quiet, startled whispers came from the woods, soon followed by Tal’s loud voice.

“They are the Thedosians. It is unadvisable to harm them.”

There was rustling of leaves and more murmur of language. Two man and one women fazed into view. One of the men were an elf, and the other two, humans. They were dressed in semi-rags, almost reminding him of Morrigan’s clothes, except their rags seemed much battle-ready. Having general color scheme of black, their single-piece armor protected everything from their head down to their ankles. The tar-covered leather weaves were bound tightly together in a cross-hatch pattern, camouflaged with black leaves that matched both the look and the mood of the Blackwood Forest. They were all armed with a bow (the same type of short reflex bow that Tal carried but seemingly never used) and a dagger. The female human’s bow was, interestingly, made of iron, not wood. The middle one approached them carefully, an arrow loaded in his hand but not drawn.

“Avanna, Strangers from the East. Friend…?”

“Manaveris somniari.” Tal said.

The man nodded and unloaded his bow. He bowed deeply at Casor.

“Apologies for our fears, stranger. We great you with utmost respect. Ahead are roads perilous yet comfortable, so ample protection will be demanded. Guide and shields, we shall be to you mysticus, and all your companions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX UPDATED: Curing the Calling (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11312812)


	4. Hero for a New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do you know what our world lacks? Heroes." - O'hana Irimae

The two of the three soldiers were Seer Pervanti’s soldiers, while the third was part of Tal’s spy-networks, the Mouse Ears. They talked with a heavy Tevinter accent, the one which was simultaneously annoying and posh. They camped near a creek that night, allowing Casor to finally clean himself. Having spent two thirds of his life in absolute luxury of the Circle, he habits of staying clean and fresh still did not disappear: this was all thanks to Wynne, who had drilled him hygiene both inside the Circle and during the Blight.

Casor suddenly wondered if she was okay, with all the chaos going on back in Orlais. The last news he heard was that she was going to the White Spire. He gritted his teeth and hit the water, angrily cursing himself. He fell again to self-blame and self-hatred for leaving the world behind when it needed him the most. He knew that Leliana was working for Divine Justinia (who, in his opinion, definitely had the right ideas in dealing with the current crisis). He even received a personal letter from the Divine herself, asking him to lead a group known as the Inquisition, an invitation that unfortunately came after he had visited Weisshaupt and learned about the Artefact. He had to turn down the offer, much to his regret… and now, guilt. He was a Grey Warden first, mage second, a Hero third. The very possibility of curing the Calling once and for all was far more important than mediating peace amongst the mages. After all, mages and their problems could be solved one way or the other – you could always try negotiation with thinking, people-brains. However, you couldn’t _talk_ with darkspawn: this business of the Calling was unsolvable. But, if he managed to find this mysterious Artefact, he might be able to end the Blights altogether. He may also be able to live longer.

That was the reason why he was here, bathing in these foreign waters. He had to convince himself that the reason was justifiable...

He got out of water, dried himself with handmade fire, and got dressed into a new pair of clothes. He reached for the Warden-Commander armor but paused over its silver carapace. It had occurred to him that he should no longer wear the double-Griffin heraldry. He smiled forlornly as he caressed the Griffins – he was not going to part with them any time soon.

He returned to the camp to find everyone asleep. Only the female soldier stood on guard, next to the dying campfire. She had light auburn hair, sharp sapphire eyes, lips that were curled up in a subtle smile, and smooth olive skin. Her face gave an aura of nobility, but tired creases spoke hard times. Yet her cheeks were tinted, indicating her youth. She greeted him with a small bow.

“Avanna! Are waters kind?”

Casor smiled and nodded. He summoned yet another fireball and rekindled the fire, turning it into a warm blaze. The soldier gasped in fear.

“Why are you afraid of magic?”

“Pardon me, mysticus. It is rare to see a wielder of mystis, especially one so adept and comfortable at his craft.”

“Rare? How rare?”

“You are the fourth mysticus I have had the honor to meet. Many do not even see one. Most people see mysticus as maleficars.”

Casor’s expression froze a little. Was he translating Tevene correctly? Mysticus was obviously a mage, and mystis meant magic. They were ancient Tevinter words, ones that even the oldest books used infrequently. Then why did she just say ‘maleficar’? It meant ‘the depraved ones’, or blood mages.

“Um… well, sorry to break your fantasy, but I’m a maleficar, too.”

The soldier’s eyes went wide, but soon she shook her head.

“Sorry for the misunderstanding I have given you. Maleficars are they who are taken by demons. You are too… _handsome_ , to be a maleficar.”

Casor grinned while internally processing what she had just said. It must be that maleficar meant abominations here, and not blood mages.

“Thank you for your compliment.”

The soldier just blushed. It was one of the usual reactions that he got among the ladies (other reactions included annoying giggles or polite smiles). He knew he was, with a little bit of pride, very good looking. He used to be an infamous playboy back when he was in the Circle, but now he tried his best to refrain himself for Leliana. She was fine with him flirting _when she could see him_ , but flirting behind her back was out of bounds apparently. He never understood that.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t yet given you my name. Casor Amell. Pleasure to meet you.”

He held out his hand, a gesture that he hoped meant the same in the West. Thankfully, it did. She shook it firmly.

“O’hana Irimae is my name. An honor, mysticus Amell.”

“So, this man that you are serving. Seer Pervanti? He’s also a mys- what? Whatever, I’ll just use the Trades tongue. He’s also a mage, isn’t he?”

O’hana thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“I do not believe so. He is no wielder of mystis. He is a somniari. Wisdom is his mystis, wisdom and visions.”

Somniari, somniari? It meant “dreamers”. Mages with exceptional connection to the Fade. They were very powerful, with the best of them being able to alter the Fade itself. However, their very connection to the Fade often prevent them from using normal magic. More powerful a dreamer was within the Fade, the weaker their magic was outside the Fade. Casor guessed that Seer Pervanti was one of those dreamers who couldn’t use conventional magic. That also explained his title – “Seer”.

“So… how do people view the Seers? Why do you serve him?”

“Seers are few and rare, their skills revered yet feared. Abhorrence is the stance of kings and nobles against Seers. But history of great tales tell of their wisdom, thus respect they gain from peasants. Their words are prophecies to times ahead, their words a shining jewel of wisdom. Seclusion is their practice in times of peace. Thus their appearance signal times of chaos. Seer Pervanti showed himself eight years ago, here in these very Forests, asking for shields and swords to gather. Fortunate was I to be elected into his service.”

Casor nodded, happy that the secrets of the West were being revealed one by one. He tried, and failed, to suppress a yawn.

“Thank you very much O’hana. I’m afraid though that must now retreat to sleep. Please wake me up for my watch.”

O’hana smiled and shook her head.

“Rest well, mysticus Amell, and find peace. We will be your protection.”

Casor nodded sadly. She didn’t know about his nightmares. He walked to his pack and pulled out his blankets. He found a comfortable spot under a large tree, and laid himself a bed. As he lied down, he saw stars – first time in seven days. They were always beautiful, always there to comfort his soul. He drifted into sleep, remembering the happy times ten years ago, with Leliana by his side…

…

**_The music. The calling. The impulsion. The desire. The need. The demand. The danger. The calling. The want. The music. The horror. The connection. The calling. The need. The calling. The need._ **

Casor woke up shouting. Sigrun, the elven soldier, and O’hana were surrounding his bedroll with concerned look on their faces.

“Amell! You’re awake! You were yelling in your sleep. Are you alright?” Sigrun inquired with a tone of motherly concern.

Casor nodded, still rather dazed.

“We tried to wake you, mysticus, but were unsuccessful.” The elven soldier said.

“Just… just a nightmare. Don’t worry. I’ve had many… experiences. More than enough to make a thousand nightmares. This was just one of them. Do not worry.”

Sigrun’s face darkened, while the other two soldiers nodded grimly. They walked away, presumably to clean up their camp. Casor sighed then got up, packing his blankets with a shaking hand.

“Amell… It’s the Calling, isn’t it?” Sigrun asked.

Casor didn’t answer, focusing on brushing off leaves from the bottom of his blanket.

“When did it start?”

Casor sighed. “Back in Weisshaupt.”

“But it’s too early! It takes thirty years, normally. Longer, for the strong-minded. And you’re the most strong-minded person I know. You shouldn’t be hearing the Calling already!”

“Thank you, Sigrun. But you must also know that I fought through a Blight. Almost bathed in tainted blood. No matter how strong one’s mind is, being so close to the Taint is lethal. I’m afraid I do not have long.”

Sigrun looked as if she was about to cry. Casor stopped packing, and gave her a hug. Their height difference made it a little lop-sided, but he tried. She hugged back tightly.

“Amell…”

“We all die, Sigrun. You, out of all people, should know that. But it’s not how you die that’s important, it’s how you live. Destiny or no, I’ll be making a hell of a fuss before I go. Don’t you worry.”

Sigrun choked up a laugh. She let go of him, her eyes welling tears.

“Okay… Anyway, you should pack up quick. We’re heading off soon. You’ve slept in.” Sigrun ordered.

…

After another day’s march, they entered a small town. The town was quite similar to Haven, minus the snow and fanatics and plus the Tevinter feel. It consisted of roughly thirty wooden houses and seven stone buildings, their perimeter recently barricaded with double wooden walls. The town hall, built of ancient stone, had been expanded with wood, but still retained its Tevinter-style architecture. Sharp, pointy roof with identical (and progressively smaller) levels, painted with a hue of black and gold. Windows were intricately decorated with geometric patterns, mainly squares and triangles. Long, stretched-out walls, built of hardened wood or stone, scaled the whole building. Though it was not a fortress, it certainly looked like one.

“Avanna! Friends!” The guard shouted at the bottom of the stairs. He was a flag-bearer, holding up a large decorative halberd that held up a large banner. The banner was displayed a shape that looked vaguely like an eye – a boat-shaped bow that was colored completely in black. Outside was decorated with red lines that formed a large pentagonal star.

“Avanna, Feri. Safe we are from the darkness of the forest.”

“May the Old Gods reveal the skies once more. Avannatius Etala, Hero! Please, enter. Seer Pervanti awaits the Hero in his study, at the far right of the building. He has asked the Searcher, the Stone-Born, and the Mysterious to stay in the vestibule.”

Sigrun and Sinnan looked at each other as they were escorted up they stairs. Casor was sure that Sigrun was wondering how the Seer knew that she was a dwarf. He nodded at Tal, who nodded back.

“Sigrun, Tal, Sinnan, I will meet you back in this hall.”

“Yes, sir! Good luck, Amell! I don’t think you’ll need it, but I have a feeling that you might.”

Casor gave his pack to Sigrun, then opened the heavy wooden door on the right side of the room. He navigated the short passageway to the study. It wasn’t difficult to find – the study was the only room which had light seeping through the door. He knocked twice, paused, then pushed open the door.

…

He gasped in delight as he entered. ‘Study’ was an insult to the library of books that resided in this room. At least twenty bookshelves covered the walls of the large hall. It was lit by countless candles scattered throughout, on the bookshelf, hanging from the ceiling, on the floor, on top of books that were on the floor, _everywhere_. The center of the room was occupied by a long table, also piled with books and paper. Seer Pervanti stood next to the door, ready to greet him.

The Seer was wearing white Tevinter magister outfit. There was no mistaking it from any other cultural design – it was one hundred percent Tevinter. From the pointy hood to the necklace-like decoration to even the Dragon-shaped brooch, it was definitely from Tevinter Imperium.

“Greetings, Casor Amell. The Hero of Ferelden, God-slayer and wielder of Honor, Duty, and Glory.”

Casor returned the bow, surprised at the titles the Seer had endowed upon him. How did this man know that he was the Hero of Ferelden? Dreamers could only see the past of the _place they were visiting_. Could it be that this man was from Thedas? If so, then how did he know the name of his spirit weapons – Honor, Duty, and Glory? Then what did ‘God-slayer’ mean? Yes, he had angered the Chantry a number of times, but he hadn’t slain the Maker. Maybe he was referring to his slaying of Urthemiel.

Casor straightened himself, and finally saw the Seer’s eyes. They were completely black – no white of the eye, no differently colored iris, just plain black. That explained the weird Seer heraldry.

“I believe that you are confused right now, which is understandable. Please allow me the time to explain to you about everything.”

With a graceful sleep of the arm, the Seer gestured Casor to follow him. He led Casor to a relatively tidy section of the table with two cushioned chairs, one of which the Seer signaled to. Casor sat down. The Seer took out a tea pot and poured himself a cup.

“Tea?”

“Yes please. Thank you.”

The Seer poured another cup. Casor picked it up and wafted its scent – elfroot honey tea, his favorite. Casor had a feeling that this was no coincidence. The Seer sat down in his own chair, his cup in hand.

“I must admit, elfroot honey tea is also one of my favored teas. I find it a perfect supplement to peaceful reading.”

Casor nodded in agreement. He was starting to accept the fact that these Seers were a little more than just dreamers. They each took time to savor the elfroot aroma before continuing.

“Pardon my manners. I have forgotten a proper introduction. I am Grand Seer Pervanti, as you have been vaguely introduced by Tal. Us Seers do have a connection to the Fade, but we cannot command its powers like yourself. Rather, we are at the mercy of the spirits, and the visions and information that they choose to share. Thus, we are often given information about the past, the present, and infrequently, the future. That is how I know about you, despite having never been to Thedas.”

Seer Pervanti took another sip from his cup. Casor still found it a little too hot to drink.

“What is your job?”

“We Seers have no desires but to remain at peace with the benevolent spirits. That, however, requires us to keep the lands at peace, so as to not to feed power to the demons. Thus we have taken a duty as peacekeepers, using our visions and wisdom of the past to end wars.”

Casor finally took a sip from the tea. It was delicious.

“I am guessing that, since now you are gathering an army, that there is a war coming to these lands.”

“Your guess is unfortunately correct. A war is coming to our lands, a war that we are grossly underprepared for.”

Casor nodded quietly, already sensing a connection between the war and his presence in the West. This Seer had clearly orchestrated his journey here.

“Alright. Then why have you brought me here, Seer Pervanti?”

“The war that I have mentioned… it is caused by an artefact. An ancient Tevinter object of veiled origins. I believe that you are the only one in the world strong enough to control its powers safely. Unfortunately, getting to the Artefact will be problematic, forcing you to journey through hatred of the land. But I have faith; the hope that you will be able to save us from the coming chaos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX UPDATED: Map of the West (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11396497)


	5. Next Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Knowing what you need to know is the hardest knowledge to gain." - Tal

“Allow me to tell you about the people of our lands. You will be ill-advised to venture out without knowing our history and our angers against each other. Though my ability to tell tales may not be as refined as Sister Nightingale, I will try.”

Casor smiled, ignoring the gathering dread in his stomach. When had abandoned his world, he had promised to stop using the title of Hero. Now, however, that title seemed to be called for.

“The first of our people came from Tevinter during the Civil War fifteen hundred years ago. By the Thedosian Chantry Calendar, that is minus 640 Ancient. Our earliest ancestor was a powerful Tevinter magister who were exiled due to the war, bringing humans and elven slaves into the West. Thus many of us believe in the Old Gods, and you may find that the people will not believe in your slaying of Urthermiel.”

Casor imagined briefly as what would happen if some random guy appeared from, say, Par Vollen and told him that he killed the Maker. The result was either his laughing at the guy’s face, or the guy beating the living daylights out of him. Maybe both.

“I understand.”

“Strange twists and turns of history has allowed the elves to gain tremendous power in the West, though it was soon surpassed by dwarves when they arrived back during the second Blight. There are always tensions between the races, and countless wars to support the hostilities, but most of us live in harmony. You will find dwarves, elves, and humans living amongst each other here in the West, though often overseen by a dwarven noble. More tea?”

“Yes please.”

The Seer smiled at Casor, who was sitting like a five year old child waiting for the next part of the bedtime tale.

“I knew you would enjoy the story. Though I cannot tell you everything, I will provide you with books here that you will enjoy. Did you know that you were the only mage in your Circle who actually memorised that history book, _History of Thedas: from Arlathan to Ferelden Rebellion_?”

The Seer poured him another cup of tea. Its fresh aroma filled the wax-filled air. Casor smiled at the old memory, years ago back in the Circle.

“I didn’t, but I suspected as much. I knew I was the only apprentice who actually like the history classes with Senior Enchanter Torrin. Please, continue.”

“I shall. Mages here are feared greatly, for they are rare in the West. Their powers are often unrivalled, for the study of magical protection in our lands is much more primitive than in Thedas. No Templars, or anyone with similar talents, exist here. Thus abominations or demons run rampant when they appear. Many tales are told to the children to scare them, and so the fear of magic is deeply ingrained in the people’s minds.”

Casor imagined what might happen if Templars weren’t around. As much as he hated the idea of Circles, Templar Order was still necessary to protect the people against inevitable demons… No wonder why the Westerners feared mages. But…

“Why are mages rare? Or should I say, rarer?”

“Had you noticed your weakened magic as you entered our lands? The Veil here is much sturdier here in the West; thus you may find your magic limited.”

“Ah…”

They took a break from talking, both pausing to finish their tea. Seer poured the last of the tea into his cup which Casor replied with a quiet thank you.

“So… How about the war that you talked about? The Artefact? When did that start?”

“I do not know of its nature or its history, for none of the benevolent spirits wish speak of it. However, I know what it has done. It has created Red Lyrium here in the West, the same substance that killed Knight-Commander Meredith during the Kirkwall Rebellion. The same Red Lyrium that is poisoning Thedas now.”

“Red Lyrium. I didn’t know it would haunt me here. Maker… Wait, you can see what’s happening in Thedas now?”

“I apologise, Hero of Ferelden. I can see all but a little, for the benevolent spirits rarely talk. However, do not fear, for Sister Nightingale is safe for now. I can say this – benevolent spirits watch over her. I believe she is destined to survive the chaos ahead.”

“That is relief beyond words… Thank you. Now then, let us focus on the task at hand. Please finish your lecture.”

“I shall. The Artefact’s Red lyrium first formed on the surface in the Dahlasanor’telban, where some men and women have armed themselves with its power, coming under its corruption. Though human kings and elven elders has also shown interest in its properties, us Seers have managed to convince them of their dangers. Yet many still use red lyrium, with more coming under its corruption every day. The surface kingdoms are now at a war against the forces of the Red, despite their ignorance to the situation. We Seers have now risen from our seclusion, for this is no small problem. I am afraid that, though our armies are mighty, we are grossly ill-equipped for a magical conflict. No-one here knows how to fight lyrium, and its connection to the Blight makes the situation all the more worse.”

“Hmm? Red lyrium is connected to the Blight?”

“Yes. Red lyrium is normal lyrium corrupted by the Taint, or so the spirits say. I cannot be certain of facts. As you can see, our Western lands will have difficulty combating this abnormality. That is why I have asked for your support. You are a mage, and a Grey Warden. More importantly, you are a Hero of Ferelden. I believe you can help. And it is true, what I have said. This Artefact may provide you with enough power to overcome your Taint and thus halt your Calling.”

…

Casor exited the study with five history books and the taste of elfroot still lingering in his mouth. He was greeted by a servant, who led him to a guest bedroom. The servant informed him that his companions will be greeted by the Seer one at a time, so he need not worry about them. After a walk up a flight of stairs, they entered a small room with wooden walls. A Tevinter-style bed, a table set, and a chest all lit by even more candles. His belongings were placed neatly in the corner, underneath a small pavrulim. The servant wished him good night, and left. Casor sat down on the chair, pulling out the brown journal from his pocket.

He wrote his diary, recording the history of the West. Casor had spent another hour or so in the Seer’s study, giving himself a crash course on the history of the West. Despite the fact that he was on an important mission to save all Wardens from the Calling, Casor’s curiousness got the better of him. He had asked the Seer about many aspects of the West, who had answered them with patience and more elfroot tea.

In summary, elves hated humans for the ancient slavery, humans hated elves because of the Great Plague, and they both hated the dwarves for taking control over the surface. Then there was the hatred between surface dwarves and underground dwarves. Why didn’t history bring people together in a nice way? Oh wait, it did. The Passageways. He had to check them out, later, if he had time.

Casor contemplated the Seer’s plan. The Seer wanted to stop the spread of the Red lyrium in the West, and the only way to do that was to remove the Artefact from the West. Meanwhile, Casor and other Grey Wardens may be able to use its powers to overcome the Calling. Avernus did mention that putting ‘enough magic’ into a Grey Warden’s body may be enough to suppress the Calling, so the Seer’s idea made sense. It was a win-win situation, as long as it worked.

So the path ahead was now clear. End the Red Lyrium conflict. Find the Artefact. Cure the Calling, then return home.

Casor finished the last sentence on the journal. By the time the candles sputtered out, his soul had entered the Fade on its nightly stroll of horrors.

…

“Amell! Nice sleep?” Sigrun asked, dressed in her night-clothes. She didn’t seem to care much about its gross informality.

Casor had been awakened by a scared servant. From his face, Casor knew that he had another nightmare, but he couldn’t remember this one. The servant apologised for the intrusion, and told him that breakfast was ready at the hall, and left hurriedly. The collar of his shirt was drenched with sweat, so he changed into his Orlesian style overalls. Having spent much time in Orlais with Leliana, (and sometimes with Kieran, whenever Morrigan allowed) he had come to like the empire’s extravagancy. He still hated nobles, and the Game, and the wastefulness, and the idiocy of politics, but it was difficult to not like the fancy balls and clothing. Orlesians also made excellent undergarments, and that was the reason why he carried them all there way here in the West. Casor entered the hall when the sun almost one-sixth of the way up in the sky. The food had been set and servants were busy, but only Sigrun was there.

“Yes. Well, the bed was surprisingly uncomfortable after eight days in the wilderness.” Casor lied.

They shared a laugh, then went straight to business talk.

“What did the Seer tell you last night?”

“He tried telling me history, which was interesting and all that, but rather boring. He’s told me the important bits though. Dwarves are the big baddies here, aren’t they? The nobles, at least. And we’re fighting humans and elves who’s tainted through Lyrium. I didn’t think that was possible, but it makes sense. A little.”

“You’ve caught the basics. I’ve heard rumors about red Lyrium back in Thedas. All I got was that it was ‘dangerous’ and ‘growing’. At least we know who we will be fighting.”

“So what’s our first step?”

“The usual. Learn our enemy’s strengths. Their weaknesses. Their motives-”

“If they have one. The corrupted people might be mindless, like Darkspawn.”

“Then we find what’s leading them. We also find out why the armies here are struggling to deal with them. After that, we walk in and kill everything in sight.”

“You truly are a one man army.”

“And you are a dead-women army.”

“Ha ha! Just like the old times.”

“May I ask to join you?”

Tal drifted out from the shadows. She had changed into simple clothes of brown, which made her look a lot more attractive. Her ever-persistent scowl was a little more relaxed, too.

“Tal! Nice of you to join us. And I mean it for both our current situation and our future situation. You are certainly welcome to join us.” Casor replied. Sigrun shot him a look, which asked “Are you sure? We don’t even know who she is! What’s her motive?” He asked the same questions in his head, but a small subconscious voice told him that this was the right choice. Considering that this same voice had advised him to recruit Leliana back during the Blight, he decided to follow that.

One of the doors suddenly banged open, revealing Sinnan. His helmet was finally off, displaying the face of a middle-aged elf. He had no tattoos, brown hair, pale skin, grey eyes, thin lips and a rather small nose. The fullness of his cheeks proved his rich elf origin – no alienage elf could look so healthy. He looked somewhat exotic and unfamiliar, even for an elf. He had also taken off the Templar plate armor, but still wore the chainmail underneath. It seemed as if he slept with it on, as it looked incredibly dishevelled.

His sudden entrance triggered Casor to summon a lightning bolt in his hands, which he managed to dissipate before anybody could notice.

“They believe in false gods here!” Sinnan declared, waving something in his hand. He proceeded to curse the people using phrases from the Chant of Light. Everybody in the hall looked at him. Oh the fanatics! They never fail to entertain and create socially awkward situations! Casor managed to cross the room and drag Sinnan back through the door before he could spew out the entire Chant.

“Calm! Yourself! Down! For Andraste’s sake! What is wrong with you?”

“I am the servant of Andraste! And I have seen her glory _ignored_. The most loyal of her followers will not stay silent!” Sinnan shouted, still waving something in his hand.

“What is that?”

“Their false god! A dragon!”

Casor grabbed Sinnan’s hand, allowing him to finally see what the object was. It was an ancient Tevinter statue of Urthemiel, the Old God of Beauty and the same Old God that he had slain. Casor laughed. Sinnan must have raided his room’s parvulim! The Seer mentioned this! Belief in the Old Gods… how fascinating! Sinnan looked at him with a deep scorn.

“Why is it that you find this funny? This is heresy!”

Casor thought for a moment, thinking of the best way to explain things to Sinnan.

“O, Sinnan! I know its heresy, but you can’t just burst into a room full of heretics and shout out their crime. It just doesn’t work. They’ve never seen the glory of Andraste, remember? To return these people to the Light, you need to take pity on them. Take pity on their ignorance. Demonstrate the Chant of Light to the blind. Okay?”

Sinnan paused, contemplating his suggestion. His expression softened as he accepted his reasoning.

“Very well. I shall. Allow us then to return. Perhaps my actions will demonstrate the power of Andraste.”

Casor managed to pry the dragon statue off Sinnan’s hands. He stuck it into his pocket as they walked back into the hall.

The West? This place was getting more and more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX UPDATED: Language of the West (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/1142985)


	6. Us Small Group

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Friendship is when your heart beats to the tune of each other's." - From Spring Wind, a Ferelden folk song

The Seer had entered the room during their brief absence, quietly conversing with a male soldier. Another stood behind them, and Casor recognised her to be O’hana. She smiled brightly as their eyes met. Casor returned the smile, then sat down next to Sigrun. He could tell that she was trying her best not to start eating. Her appetite came and went, but at its prime, she could eat five men’s worth of food. Her appetite today wasn’t at its peak yet, but it was getting there. The food did look rather tasty. Though nothing fancy – bread, creamed sauces, meat slices of unknown delicious origin, and a bowl of fruit – they sure looked great. His own hands twitched towards the knife before he pulled it back into a respectful curve on his lap. The Seer must have seen this because he quickly finished his conversation with the soldier. The three of them soon took seats at the table.

“I hope you have had a pleasant sleep, my honorable guests! [the Seer gave Casor an empathetic glance] Your journey ahead will be one of danger and peril, though it seems that some of you quite enjoy the two elements of life. But for now, you will need to prepare for such journey. So please, enjoy your meal.”

They all started eating: Sigrun, Casor, Tal, Sinnan, the Seer, the other soldier and O’hana. The food tasted a little peculiar, but surprisingly agreeable to his taste.

“So… may I inquire about our plan? In detail, I mean.” Casor asked. The Seer finished his current mouthful, then wiped his mouth with his handkerchief in a very deliberate manner.

“Yes. It believe now is a good time to discuss. First of all, I would like to introduce two of the most capable soldiers I have been graced to knowledge. This is Yerius Aldrum, soldier in the Order of Reclamations.” The Seer introduced.

The dark-skinned soldier bowed as best as he could with his hands full of bread. Casor got the impression that he had a dwarven parentage, even though he looked human. His short but well-built stature further added to this theory. He wore long, braided hair and beard, had sharply defined eyebrows and a flat wide nose. He wore a neat Tevinter style clothes, though it was somewhat unkempt. He only drank out of his flask that Casor suspected was filled with alcohol.

“At your service, mysticus.” Yerius said with a pleasantly deep voice.

“And Casor Amell at yours.” Casor replied.

“And the other, you have already met. I introduce you O’hana Irimae, princess of the Claw house and third Claw Lentomari to the Ignagyris.”

“By name, no more. A pleasure again, mysticus Amell.” O’hana’s voice suddenly sounded a lot more gracious.

“Of course, my princess.” Casor replied, smiling widely. He had said almost the same thing to Alistair long ago. O’hana blushed, then resumed her eating, taking a little more care with her posturing.

“They will accompany you to meet Vimount Tarin, the current head of the joint Surfacers army. The majority of the conflict is in the Whitefields. Weather guiding, you should reach them in two weeks. Hopefully there, he will greet you and inform you of the enemy.”

“Yet we are strangers to them. They have no reason to do so. Trust is a rare commodity.” Tal pointed out gruffly. Casor was starting to see that she was a lot more talkative than Sten (talkative was definitely not the correct word to use, but there was no better alternative). The Seer nodded in agreement.

“Indeed. That is why I ask you carry one of my banners. O’hana will act as my ambassador until my advice is no longer needed.”

“Honor and duty, I shall uphold to my fullest, Seer Pervanti.” O’hana said with a nod. Casor sniggered into his bread, then did his best to look innocent.

“I believe you, O’hana. So, Hero, I am hoping that my banner alone will give you the power enough to convince them to help. If not, then perhaps your magic will convince them.”

“Mages carry that much weight here?” Sigrun asked. Casor saw that her plate, which had been refilled three times, was already empty; not even crumbs remained.

“You will see.” Yerius replied quietly.

…

The group of six walked out of the forest, fully armed and carrying only day packs. Casor led the front, even though he had absolutely no idea where they were heading. Yerius walked beside him to answer some of his questions. O’hana followed closely behind. Sinnan and Sigrun were ten paces behind her, talking lively about the Chantry. Tal quietly brought up the rear. They were a diverse group, consisting of members from every known species and major social groups. Their outfit seemed to reflect their diversity.

O’hana wore the black leather armor like before, but she removed the forest camouflage, revealing humble yet golden decorations beneath the rags; Amber dragonling brooch carved by a master, silverite buttons deceptively hidden to those afar, and a beautiful ruby bracelet that only showed when she lifted her hand above her shoulders. On her left shoulder was a stylised veridium adornment of a black dragon claw – presumably the symbol of the Claw house. When Casor complemented her looks, she humbly replied that they were a duty, rather than a show of richness.

Yerius wore a heavy plate armor built out of dragon scales, in reminisent to Wade’s ‘Superior’ Dragonscale Armor he had commissioned through Harren back during the Blight. (He had fondly worn that armor against the Archdemon and throughout the Darkspawn civil war, only replacing it when the leather bounds were torn apart. As far as he knew, the remains of that armor, along with the Helm of Honnleath, were still sitting in Vigil’s Keep basements, waiting for another adventure to find and, if possible, repair and use.) It was dyed vibrant orange; a tactical suicide for sure but achieving aesthetic perfection. Unlike most armors, it had a shoulder guard on both sides (Yerius explained that this was because he is ambidextrous). He wielded a very large, cocoon-shaped shield and a basket-hilted sword, both of which inscribed with orange Tevene writing.

Casor analysed their party tactically. Two shield and sword warriors, two archers (was Tal an archer or a duel-wielder?) and one double-axe wielder, and one mage. That was a very good makeup for defence, but their offensive skills and their maneuverability lacked. Casor role, therefore, was to become the tip of the spear wielding Glory.

They walked along a relatively pleasant forest path loosely populated by loggers and peasants. They did not look significantly different from peasants of the Fereldren, except for a somewhat Tevinter air that Casor couldn’t put his finger on. He continued his endless stream of questions to Yerius.

“So Yerius. What is the Order of Reclamations?” Casor asked. Yerius visibly straightened himself with pride before replying.

“The Order, mysticus, is a group of the finest soldiers in the West. We are warriors of every skill and talent, born to die at the hands of the Gods.” Yerius announced.

“The Gods?”

“Dragons. Though the presence of a dragon is a blessing, their raw power is a curse that we have the duty to dispel. The Order of Reclamations reclaims the corrupt messengers back to Dumat.”

“So you’re dragon hunters.”

“Of the finest abilities, yes. We welcome anyone with dedication and belief into our order.”

“Finest in the West may be. But of hubris they stand against the Temple!” O’hana trotted forward to join the conversation. Yerius laughed at her last statement.

“My, my, the Temple of Old Gods cannot order us indeed, princess Irimae. We serve the Gods but moreover the people. We cannot sit idly by as villages are cursed just because the Temple said that it was a punishment. No, my princess! We cannot!” Yerius replied.

“Duty you serve is of pure valor. That I understand. Yet why do you not help in plights brought by none other than the people themselves?” O’hana protested with a subtle hint of sinister anger. Yerius, under his enormous humor, missed the subtly.

“A fine question indeed! Yet do not question us. We have our reasons.” Yerius replied. Casor noted amusedly that he sounded like a Grey Warden.

O’hana did not reply, but her thin shoulders radiated a silent warning of anger. Casor immediately noticed a pain of a troubled past, so he nudged Yerius before he could blunder further. Yerius looked at him in puzzlement, making Casor roll his eyes.

“Just! … ah... Sigrun, my companion, may be fascinated by your stories. She does like a good dragon tale.”  Casor suggested in exasperation. Yerius still didn’t quite understand what he had done wrong, but he turned around to talk to Sigrun. Casor turned his attention back to O’hana, who continued to walk with a set face. She started to kick some dirt, perhaps knowingly, as she walked.

“The Passageways path may be our fastest option. Path of the left should lead us there.” She informed mechanically. Casor promptly followed her words, talking the left path. He picked up his speed into a brisk walk, but O’hana struggled to keep up with his pace, so he slowed down back to a slow stroll (of course, those were from his perspective. From a normal person’s perspective, his ‘slow stroll’ was ‘brisk walk’ and his ‘brisk walk’ was ‘uncomfortable speed between a walk and a jog’).

“So… you are a princess?” Casor finally asked. There was a fleeting expression of anger and longing in O’hana’s expression before it was replaced by a grin.

“A Lentomari, by name mysticus Amell. By worth, I doubt not.”

“Doubt!” Casor laughed. “If anything, that is the one thing that makes you worthy” He smirked at his memory and simply continued walking. Only when he saw O’hana’s baffled expression did he elaborate on his remark. “You see, the only person who can become a leader is someone who doubts themselves. Those who doubt can see their faults, and thus is able to improve and lead. Thus, a worthy princess must know to doubt herself.”

O’hana nodded. “The kindness you show me is flattering, mysticus Amell. My gratitude goes with you. May I inquire, withholding any offence the question may cause, if he too is of noble origin?”

“Hmmm. To answer your question… Well, Amell is, _was_ , a noble family back where I come from, but I don’t consider myself as a noble. I hardly even knew my parents, raised as a pris-no, scholar, all my life. Let’s just say that I have a mage origin.”

O’hana had caught his slip-up, but she respectfully ignored it. She did indeed have a sense of nobility, and Casor wondered how he had not seen it earlier. She had all the right elements – an elegant stature, good manners and the ability to veil (not hide) her emotions. Three qualities that many Orlesian nobles _thought_ they had. Not quite so, especially when they loved to play their Game.

They came across a small stream that the path followed along its banks. It quickly widened into a small river. Casor spied fish in the water and, on the water’s horizon, the top of a mast. They were nearing the Passageways.

“So tell me, what is the Ring of Fire?” Casor prodded further.

“The throne of the mighty Tevinaterium is known as the Ignagyris. Ring of Fire is its common tongue name. The ones upon the Ring is one who governs most human lives of the West.” O’hana explained.

“So… it’s not a king?”

“It is true that, as according to tradition, all upon the Ring are equal, though the Archon leads them all. Tensions between the Archon and the rest of the Ignagyris have always dictated our empire’s politics.”

“Interesting… There’s only one human empire?”

“Against other species, we have warred in history. It has forced us to… unite. Northern cities, however, are ruled mostly independently.”

Casor nodded. Alistair’s offhand remark ten years ago held a grim truth – ‘don’t you just love the way this war brings people together?’ It seemed that this truth worked in the West as well.

“So… same with dwarves and elves? One nation each?” Casor asked. It was not the sort of question to ask when trying to keep a girl happy, but Casor’s inquisitiveness got the better of him.

O’hana shook her head. “Elven people have Sahlin Vhenas. Its powers and armies are bigger than that of Tevinaterium, much to man’s discomfort. They rule much of the Western Coast and contend for the Teoum. Divided are dwarves into two empires. The underground empire is ruled by the Utantag, and the surface empire is seated by the Crytin Thiag. Utan, with their army of stone, is the mightiest of the four. Only can an army of the other three united defeat the stone waves of Utan.”

Army of stone; Golems were indeed mighty. Casor briefly wondered what would have happened had he not agreed to destroy the Anvil of the Void. Undoubtedly the king of Orzammar would abuse it, leading to countless sacrifices. Of course Golems would have helped greatly at Denerim, but after that? Who knew what the dwarven king would do? It seemed that this ‘what if’ scenario was unfolding here in the West.

They continued down the now-widened river, eventually coming to a set of buildings. They were shops and warehouses, all servicing the entry of the Passageways. A complex dock stretched into the river, where Casor was fascinated to see a cutter tied to its pier along with dozens of small boats of varying designs. There were many soldiers nearby, guarding the docks for their obvious strategic and economic importance (all wearing a large Teeth symbol on their chestpieces). The whole place was as busy as the Denerim marketplace, with many humans, dwarves, and selves running about.

“Avannatius Passageways, mysticus Amell! Much of the Passageway’s traffic in Etala forest communities are serviced by this town. A boat here to Sahlin should be found easily.” O’hana introduced.

She told them to stay behind while she looked for transport. Casor, Sigrun, and Sinnan unconsciously bunched together, staring at the strange Westerners with a slightly open mouth. There were many familiar goods being traded here: lyrium, lumber, weaponry, tools, trinkets, and food. Sigrun pointed to one of the sellers and cried “nugmeat!” and begged for a slice before Sinnan reminded her that she was penniless. She showed him Casor’s bag of coin with a playful smile, presumably stolen from his pocket during the walk, but Casor broke her illusion by saying that Orlesian coin did not work here in the West. She and Casor then launched into a pointless debate as to whether gold worked in all lands, even beyond Thedas and the West. Sinnan’s attempts to voice his own opinion was casually thwarted by both sides before they restarted their argument with renewed fervor. After a while, Tal intervened in their bickering and gave them both a slice of well-roasted nugmeat. She even gave Sinnan a slice before stoically moving to the back of the group.

“You know Tal, you’re much nicer than you act out to be.” Sigrun complimented before she bit a large chunk off her meat, their argument all forgotten.

“I do not hide behind a mask. I merely act out my desires.” Tal answered.

“And what desire was that, giving us the meat?” Sinnan asked.

“To grant myself a moment of silence. It appears that I have been unsuccessful.” Tal replied.

Casor chuckled as he ate. The meat was undercooked, but okay.

There were many other things traded here that caught Casor’s curious attention. Most of all, what was that herb that people carried in their cups? Some people in the docks carried little cups that resembled something like a malfunctioning lantern, for it emitted more smoke than light. It seemed to him that they were actually breathing _in_ the smoke. Casor turned around to Yerius (chomping on some meat of his own) and asked.

“You don’t know about those? Do you not have them in the east? My, they are smoking herbs. Tothleaf, we call them. It calms you down if you breathe in the fumes. Here, here, I will start mine.” Yerius crouched on the ground and opened his pack. After a bit of rummaging, he produced his own cup and a bag of herbs. He carefully packed the herbs into the cup before getting out his fire starter. Casor leaned down and offered a small fire on his finger, to which Yerius yelped out in surprise. Many people around them turned to look, saw Casor’s magical fire, and froze in their tracks.

“Amell? What’s going on?” Sigrun asked nervously.

Casor scanned the crowd of shocked faces and decided it was a good idea not to use magic. He extinguished the fire, which caused even more people to cry out.

“Well this is awkward.” Casor whispered to Sigrun. She answered with a small nervous twitch of her chin.

“That’s it, maleficar, I knew magic was bad!” Sinnan accused quietly, his eyes also on the crowd of scared people.

Yerius stood up and stepped in front of Casor. “My, my. There is no need to fear, my good people of Etala! This mysticus here is being carefully observed by me, Yerius Aldrun of Order of Reclamations. Please, please, do not fear!”

A few people started to resume their work, now keeping a suspicious distance away from Casor and their company. It took a bit more of Yerius’s goofy encouragement to get everyone back to their lives. O’hana joined them quickly, her eyes wide with worry.

“Fear, mysticus Amell, is far greater than you may be used to here in the West. With all my good will, an advice I givs is to not use your mystis unless necessary.” She said quickly. Casor, still frozen in his awkward pose, nodded.

“Very well. A path by boat have been found to Sahlin. May our journey be swift. Please, follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX UPDATED: History of the West (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11547523)


	7. Pride of the Fade-Born

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Magic is dangerous because it is an unconditional, and often undeserved power" - First Enchanter Irving

The boat was big enough to house six crewmen and six passengers, equipped with two large rectangular sails and a set of oars for propulsion. Although it did not normally travel at night, O’hana had requested an express passage, so it did not stop when the sun set. Casor had been curiously exploring the boat and the scenery throughout the day, but now he was clutching the side of the ship, feeling nauseated. Sigrun was next to him, also trying to ‘calm her belly’, but having difficulty leaning over due to her height. Neither of them had yet vomited, but it was as inevitable as the setting sun.

“Uh! The sky’s going yellow.” Sigrun complained. Casor nodded, felt the dizziness explode in his head, and decided that nodding was not a good idea. Yerius came around and slapped them both on the back, making Casor throw up a little in his mouth. He swallowed it back, leaving a burning sensation down his throat.

“That really wasn’t necessary!” Sigrun spat. She finally managed to haul herself on top of a box, hanging rather dangerously over the rails. Yerius laughed.

“My, my, dear Thedosians! Your elven friend seems to be fine, yet you two have such bad boat-sickness! And the waters are calm! Ha ha! Do not worry, it will disappear soon. Look, the sun is setting also. Here, maybe the smoke will help!” Yerius drew out his smoking cup and herbs and lit the device. Whatever ‘help’ he was thinking of didn’t work as the two Wardens began to cough their lungs out.

“Ooh, sorry. My, it seems that both of you are not used to the smoke. Very well. Though I’m afraid you will be stuck with it as long as I am with you!” Yerius chuckled. He continued to let the smoke waft over them. Casor felt the urge to punch the smiling half-dwarf.

“I am a mage, Yerius. I swear…” Casor grumbled. Yerius stroke his beard with mischievous eyes.

“Ah, my mysticus! You may indeed turn me into a frog tomorrow, when your boat-sickness is gone. But right now, your disoriented enough to turn your friend into a frog instead of me! Ha ha ha!” Yerius replied heartily and slapped them again. Sigrun finally vomited over the side.

With a hand over his nose, Casor closed his eyes, Yerius’s words ringing in his ears… ‘your disoriented enough…’

Disoriented? Disorient! Of course!

He placed his palm against his forehead and cast an anti-disorient spell. A ripple of cold spread from his fingertips, clearing away the nasty headache like the sun dispersing the morning fog. He smiled brightly, regretting why he had not thought of this earlier and thanking Wynne for teaching him this obscure magic (“Why do I have to learn an _anti-_ entropic spell?” “You need to learn how to heal people before you can hurt them.” “What if I don’t hurt them?” “Then you need to learn how to help your friends against those who do.” “But…” “Amell, you know you have to learn this.” “Yes muuuum.”).

He reached over and cast the same spell on Sigrun, winking as her clouded countenanced cleared into a happy grin.

“Some people take a full day to recover, some even longer. I wonder how long you will both take!” Yerius continued, oblivious to their now-comfortable posture.

“How about now? I’d like a frog stew tonight. Amell, what do you say?” Sigrun asked, jumping around to face him. Yerius’s eyes widened from shock.

“Of course, Sigrun. I’ll second that. How about you, Yerius?” Casor replied, summoning a scary-looking glyph around Yerius’ feet and encasing the stupid smoke cup in ice. Yerius’s face whitened.

“I…I… apologize, mystica… I mean, mysticus! I did not mean anything! I apologize!” Yerius pleaded. Casor and Sigrun laughed.

“It’s a joke, Yerius! Don’t worry about it, I’m not like that. Besides, I don’t know how to turn people into a frog. Set them on fire, maybe, but not a frog.” Casor replied, still laughing. It felt good to have his mind back.

…

A soft breeze blew life into the sails as it billowed forward. The woods groaned softly as the sails changed shape. The waters, softly hidden in darkness, made little noise as their boat sped south. The weather had cooled as they approached the Frozen Lands – now, touching any metal even for the briefest of moments was enough to bring deep shivers up the spine. Casor stood at the stern of the small ship, looking up quietly at the night sky. The stars were out, twinkling the sky’s dark globe with enchanting light more beautiful than any magic. His searching eyes found a set of two stars – Alindra and her soldier lover. They were especially bright tonight, as was Alindra’s river of tears. When will they join once more…? When will he join Leliana again? If ever?

Casor reached inside his Griffin armor and pulled out his necklace. The golden ball was warm from his body heat. He kissed it slowly, restoring faith in himself. He was going to return. He was going to be successful. He was going to live.

Casor spied another town ahead. He placed his necklace back inside his armor as he peered into the darkness. The cluster of lights were yet too far away for him to see anything.

“Lack of sleep, mysticus Amell?” A female voiced asked behind him. He turned around to see O’hana, sleepily rubbing her eyes and shivering ever so slightly.

“More or less. You look cold.” He answered. He took off his outer robe and gave it to O’hana, half expecting her to refuse.

“My gratitude go with you. A fast progress we are making, for that ahead is Sahlin Vhenas. It is strange, for the nights have been far colder, yet a swift passage the winds have given us. A week ahead we are of the planned time.” She said, wrapping herself in his robes. It was a little big on her, but the blue dye suited her fair complexion. Casor hesitated before answering her implied question.

“Yes… Well, you will have to forgive me for that. Being a mage allows me to do things that others often consider strange… The winds are my doing. I have been creating the winds behind us.”

O’hana nodded as though she had already guessed the answer.

“Amell, please refrain from wielding mystis. It is much feared amongst the people.”

Casor had been reading up on the history of the West. After so many abominations, condemnations, attacks, and terrorization by the mages, it was little wonder that magic was feared. It forced him to re-think the necessity of the Circles back in Thedas.

“I will try. But I am in a bit of a hurry when it comes to… the mission. I wanted to accelerate our progress as much as possible.” He answered.

“I understand. Then I ask at the very least to not use mystis near Yerius.” O’hana replied.

“Why?” Casor asked, suddenly worried about the ‘frog’ incident a few days ago.

“Strong are his fears of mystis, though he tries hard to overcome them.”

Then there was that incident at the Passageway entrance…

“Hm… do you know why?”

“I am afraid not.”

A puzzle to solve later.

“Alright. I’ll be more careful next time, then.”

They stood quietly, watching the great elven city coming into view. Casor half minded to pause here and tour the great city. Alas, time was not on his side. He had to find the Artefact quickly, then return to Thedas to help with the Inquisition. Perhaps later, when he his duties were all over, he may come back to travel these lands. Right now though, he had a job to do.

Casor drew more mana to increase the winds. Cold winds began to lick at his nose and ears, and O’hana drew the robe closer to her chest. She looked at Casor, sighed, and returned her gaze to the city.

“O’hana, I have to ask, why are you in the Seer’s army? You are a princess, aren’t you?” Casor inquired cautiously.

“I… Noble are any who submit to servitude to a Seer’s cause. I wished to help.” O’hana dodged the question, so Casor did not ask more. Soon, O’hana’s face broke into a yawn which she failed to hide with her hands.

“Apologies, mysticus. May I take my leave?” She began to unwrap the robe, but Casor stopped her.

“Give it to me tomorrow.” He smiled.

“Thank you. I wish you a pleasant sleep.” O’hana whispered. She made her way lazily back into the boat’s cabin.

The robe made him warm. Warm, unlike the cold dread that was the source of his mana. He rubbed his eyes, felt his magic failing, and renewed his effort. Winds began to howl against his ear.

…

Their boat was towed into a large riverside harbor, amongst a surprising number of other boats. There were even a few warships tied to the stone walls. Many people were, like workers in all other ports, running around busily. However, there was an extra tingling of anticipation in the air, along with strict rigidness of a disciplined army. Many wore armor, ranging from plain leather protections to drakeskin suits. The cargo that came off the boats were also noticeably different – mainly weapons, armor, food, and warriors. No-one could mistake the fact that a war being waged here.

Casor, Sigrun, and Tal stepped off the boat, all of them swaying slightly despite the solid ground beneath their feat. It was an uncanny feeling, like the ground itself was alive, breathing underneath the rock. He shook his head to clear such thoughts, but it did not disappear.

Sinnan was next to hop off the boat, but Casor noticed his gracefulness on solid ground. Perhaps he had ridden many boats before? After all, he didn’t have any boat-sickness… The templar was suddenly on the ground as Yerius pushed past him, apologizing hurriedly and running off to the tents like a scared rabbit.

“Where is he going?” Sinnan grunted. He used his mace to push himself up, ignoring Casor’s outstretched hand.

“Order’s outpost.” Tal answered. Despite standing a head taller than everyone, she did not seem to draw much attention to herself, a skill of stealth Casor found fascinatingly impossible to learn. Leliana was right – no matter how much he tried, he didn’t quite have the aptitude of a rogue. The closest thing he had to ‘stealth’ was killing every possible witness in the vicinity.

O’hana, after paying the boat master for the trip (more accurately getting a re-fund, for their journey had taken half the time than usual thanks to Casor’s magic), joined them.

“Reports and duty, the Order’s members are too firmly bound to. Very well. Recruiting posts are our next destination. Please follow me.” O’hana sighed. Casor got the impression that she had become their tourist guide.

They cautiously made their way to a large shabby tent already brimming with soldier hopefuls. Many stood in line, naked from waist up to be inspected (except females, who were taken into a different tent as a group). Casor was curious to see members of all three species standing without animosity – a sight that was yet to be repeated in Thedas. Yerius managed to join them again before they came to the front of the line, carefully avoiding Sinnan’s venomous glare.

“Avanna! You are here to apply for the mercenary army? Give your names to me. Females behind me, males over there. You need to pass the physical test bef… whoa.” The young dwarven soldier, who was manning the registration table, looked up and saw Tal. She wore an especially grumpy face for the occasion. He then cast his eyes over the group standing in front, all armed and geared to fight demons and worse. O’hana intervened before the dwarf began his hysteria.

“Avanna! Our mission is one of noteworthy importance. Thus, may I request to our audience with the Vimount?” She asked. The dwarven soldier gulped.

“I… I don’t know. Please talk to the Captain. He’s over there.” The soldier pointed.

O’hana followed the soldier’s finger towards the Elven captain, closely tailed by Casor. Tal ushered the rest of the group outside, signaling ‘east’ with her hands.

“Avanna, strangers! With curiosity I have watched your group enter, for you are no average hopefuls. Why, you seem already to be blessed by Zazikel’s strength!” The captain greeted them.

“My gratitude goes with you, captain. My name is O’hana Irimae. We wish to speak with the Vimount, for we are still hopefuls wishing to join the effort. Though our joining may be of great help.” O’hana greeted back.

The captain nodded at the last statement and motioned them to follow him. He ushered the pair outside through a backdoor. “Vimount Tarin is, of late, in bad temper. Though I sense great importance on your shoulders. I shall try to gain his favor.” He led them to a smaller tent some distance away, disappearing quietly behind the cloth door.

…

Vimount Tarin was a dwarven general with neatly cut beard. He stood around a cluster of maps on an unusually low table, with the expression of a disgruntled farmer after the tax collector left the hut. Another Vimount stood behind him with a massive axe disproportionate to his elven height. He gave a short bow to them as they entered. A very young elf stood next to him, completely ignoring their presence. The boy seemed too young to be at a general’s tent; he probably hadn’t shaved a beard in his life! Yet here he was, looking down at the map with an air of manufactured authority.

Casor felt the Veil stir and realized that the elf was a mage.

“Avanna. Who are you?” Vimount Tarin asked in a manner that was borderline rude.

“Avanna, Vimount Tarin. I am O’hana Irimae. We come with a message from Seer Pervanti.” O’hana answered graciously. She nudged Casor with the heel of her boot.

“Avanna, I am Casor Amell.” Casor attempted, acutely aware of his funny Tevene accent. O’hana drew out a letter from her pocket and handed it to the dwarf, who hurriedly snatched it out of her hands.

“How many soldiers are here?” Casor asked the elven captain as Tarin read the message.

“Three thousand, from the kin-group of Shalin Vhenas, though we have suffered heavy losses. Of late, two thousand stone-born warriors of Crytin have joined us. We have been welcoming individual mercenaries, as you have seen. Their numbers are reaching five hundred. We have also been fortunate to be joined by a group of five wielders of mystis.” The elven captain kindly replied.

“I refuse believe this! Do you take me for a fool?” Vimount Tarin blurted out as he finished reading the message. Casor was slightly amused to see that the mage boy continuing to ignore the commotion.

“Why must you shout, Tarin? What does it say that angers you so?” The other elven general asked.

“Read it, Vimount Vannel! This message claims to be from Seer Pervanti. According to it, the Reds are the greatest threat that we have faced yet, and that the mighty Crytin army will not suffice! And it claims that there is a magister from the lands of Thedas! To help us! Do you take me for a fool, human? Such lands are only peasant’s legends!” Vimount Tarin shouted at O’hana, who responded with I-want-to-hit-you-but-I-will-remain-mannered expression. The elven boy finally lifted his head up as the word ‘magister’ was mentioned. He peered at O’hana and Casor with squinted eyes, scanning them like pieces of meat.

“With respects to your great wisdom, I ask that you believe us and the message. If you do not, then at very least allow us the task to strike at the enemy.” O’hana replied.

“Why should I believe you?” Tarin asked. It was clear that Vimount Tarin was a man of strong pride, one that was probably wounded by that disrespectful elven mage. Normally, the best way to deal with such men was to bow at their anger, but Casor didn’t have time to please everyone he met: so he intervened.

“You, as a Vimount, will be required to do many things, most of all believe. We are here to help, for the threat is indeed greater than you realize. You face an enemy that you have never faced before. Thus your difficulties are understandable. On the other hand, I have battled them for two decades. Allow me to lend my expertise. After all, what do you have to lose?” Casor said, dramatically lowering his voice for effect. O’hana looked at him in nervous surprise, but was even more surprised by Tarin’s answer.

“Who dare…! You… you must be the magister... It is true? Of Thedas?”

“Yes.”

“And you are…”

“A mage.”

The Vimount stood quite still, frozen like a statue save for the slow moving of his brown eyes. He eventually receded into a sigh, accepting his fate.

“It is true, then. Very well. What help can you be to us?” Vimount Tarin said, his anger billowing out of him. Vimount Vannel (or so Casor assumed his name to be) gave Casor an approving look.

“What? No! We don’t need another magister! He doesn’t even look like a mysticus! Who are you?” The elven mage retorted, instantly drawing a frown from the two Vimounts. Casor raised an eyebrow at the boy’s amazing lack of manners.

“Avanna. I am Casor Amell, as I have introduced. I do, in fact, know a bit of magic.” Casor replied with a note of sarcasm.

“I don’t believe you. Where is your staff, if you are planning to battle?” The boy replied, reaching for his staff that was leaning innocently at the back of the tent. Everyone except for Casor backed off in a hurry. Even O’hana touched his arm in warning, but Casor simply laughed.

“You have a lot to learn regarding magic, son.” Casor replied, poking at the boy’s ego.

“Prove it.” The boy said, his staff trained against him. Casor thought briefly to use a lethal spell before opting to use a Paralyze. The boy’s eyes widened as he soon found his body immobile.

“With an attitude like that, son, you were lucky to have lived half my age. I’m surprised that the Pride demon hasn’t possessed you yet.” Casor answered. He released the boy, who collapsed to the floor – the usual reaction when a mage is overwhelmed by another by an Entropic magic.

“Now can we focus? Tell me what’s happening here.” Casor announced to his stunned audience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Updated: Magic in the West (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11663665)


	8. Deference to the Fallen God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I pray to the God inside you" - West Elven blessing

The sky outside darkened to a purplish-red glow of dusk. The fiery heat of the day quietened to a hushed whisper as the crowds thinned and dispersed. Boats continued to arrive, but their crew no longer ran about, instead moving at a tired shuffle. Waters ran by silently, making noise only audible to those who listened. An inn by the dockside suddenly roared with laughter, but otherwise the calm stillness of the oncoming night began to envelope the Passageways port. However, the strategists at the Vimount’s tent were oblivious to the change, their lamps burning fast through its first dish of oil.

Vimount Vannel invited every one of Casor’s group into the tent, allowing them to join the grim discussion of war. Pleasantries of introduction was shared only briefly before the conversation was overtaken by the status of war.

“Casualties are often but never severe. Ambush and stealth is their tactic…”

“Heavy losses to civilians… whole towns disappeared…”

“Can’t fight them normally… they simply don’t fight an army…”

“We cannot scout their territory… none of the scouts returned”

“Our supplies are sabotaged… we are running short of food…”

“Mages can’t get too close. We nearly lost Jesis…”

“They sound very much like darkspawn.” Sigrun summarised. Sinnan gave a tiny yelp of surprise and Casor nodded in agreement. Tal’s face grew a little more tense than usual. Others around the tent had no idea what Sigrun just said.

“In general, I agree. However, they seem a little more individualistic. Darkspawn don’t know how to retreat. These Reds do.” Casor continued her analysis, pouring over the complex maps that, in their eagerness to show information, showed nothing decipherable.

“They also seem to be stronger, if these Red Captains can break a shield arm with a single blow.” Sigrun continued before anybody could interrupt, angling her arms in a mental simulation.

“No magic though. That’s good. Darkspawn Emissaries were a pain to fight back during the Blight.” Casor swung an invisible sword at Sigrun who blocked it with her own invisible axe. Yerius watched in fascination as they continued their mental sparring. “Hmm… no. Don’t do that. I think you’ll receive the brunt of the blow.”

“Alright. But these Red Monsters.” Sigrun adjusted her arm slightly, now to deflect the blow rather than blocking. Casor nodded in approval as Sigrun continued; “how do we fight them? They sound worse than Orcs.” Casor swung his other arm, which Sigrun dodged.

“Yes. Orcs with magic. Well… we’ll see. I say we consider this as a Blight.” Casor replied. Sinnan quietly yelped again.

“Darkspawn with no Archdemon. Or is there? Maybe that Artefact is an Archdemon.” Sigrun said, tapping at the point on the map which showed the largest concentration of the Reds. Both Casor and Sigrun sheathed their invisible weapons, oblivious to the amused faces of the Vimounts.

“Nice catch. Darkspawn also did that – horded around the Archdemon. That’s probably where their leader, or leaders are.”

“What is darkspawn?” O’hana asked, catching the lapse in the two Wardens’ conversation. Casor, for a brief moment, was overwhelmed by her innocent question. _Darkspawn_ … He had been fighting those fiends for all his life; too many emotions were mixed into that simple word.

“Oh, right. They… how do we explain this?” Sigrun replied, her hands coming together in an uncertain confusion. She too was undoubtedly unsettled by O’hana’s question.

After much deliberation, Casor answered simply. “They are… well, much like these Reds. Their numbers are vast and their power unfathomable. It is they that Sigrun and I have been battling them for a decade.”

“Amell’s been at it longer. Better at it, too.” Sigrun humbly added.

“I can’t beat a dead lunatic, Sigrun.” Casor chuckled.

“That’s not true! I may be a lunatic, but I’m not dead yet!” She retorted in mock anger. They both knew where this was going.

“Is that so? _Miss_ Legionnaire!” Casor pointed at the Legion of the Dead symbol on her armor.

“That’s it! I’m going to throw myself into the river!” Sigrun declared and stormed out of the tent. The occupants watched in confusion as Casor cracked up laughing. Sigrun returned not a moment later, her face set in mild discontent.

“Brrr! Why is it so cold outside? Death by hypothermia really wasn’t what I had in mind.” Sigrun grumbled.

“That’s your forty second death.” Casor pointed out in between his breaths.

“Forty second? Third! You missed the one where I _actually_ fell into a river.” Sigrun replied, unable to hide her giggles much longer. Casor was trying hard to end laughter, leading him to an uncontrollable fits of gaging. “And if you keep going on like that, you might meet your death faster than mine!” Sigrun suddenly stopped smiling.

They remembered his impending doom.

He gave out one more cough before putting his hand on her shoulders. “Don’t worry Sigrun. That’s why we’re here.” Casor spoke with confidence that he wished to possess. Sigrun nodded her head solemnly.

“My, my, if those were jokes, I believe I have missed many.” Yerius said, reminding the Wardens about their awkward company.

“I have heard of Grey Wardens’ curious nature. It seems that rumors fall short of the truth.” Tal quietly added.

Sigrun cleared her throat as Casor returned his gaze back to the map. His face only briefly flashed embarrassment before switching into a serious expression of a Warden-Commander.

“I apologize for our untimely jokes. I believe I know what to do now. These enemies do seem like an anomaly for you, but a familiarity for me. At least, that is the case from what I have heard. All trivial explanations aside, I believe I understand the Reds enough to attempt an attack.” Casor began to muster his voice, drawing in the attention of his audience. Even the elven mage drew closer to the maps as he began to speak, his previous frown at the Wardens all forgotten.

“I believe that these Reds have some sort of hive-mind. Back in Thedas, an Old God commands such mind, but none of the Old Gods prisons have been disturbed since ten years ago. That leads me to conclude that there is something else that is controlling these Reds.” Casor explained, lightly tracing with his fingers the paths that the Reds had taken in the past week.

“M… mysticus… Did you say that the Old Gods command these forces?” Vimount Vannel interrupted. He stared at Casor in horrified disbelief, blood quickly draining from his face. A quick glance around the tent showed mirror-reflections of Vimount’s countenance. _Oh right… They believe in Old Gods here_. Casor remembered, regretting his rash announcement.

“No, not quite.” Casor retracted, raising his finger in a gesture of confidence. “Definitely not in this case, anyway. But something is leading them on. As Sigrun pointed out, I think that _thing_ is here.” Casor jabbed at a small landmark that was surrounded by large labels of Red activity. “We strike there, and see what happens. What do you say?”

…

The small landmark was an abandoned gytas, roughly a half a day’s march away from the port. The Vimounts had also guessed as much as Casor, but had not been able to attack the location due to heavy resistance. They had also been too focused on evacuating villagers and securing supply lines to really focus on the Reds.

Their plan was simple – have a group of elites scout the gytas and its surrounding area, plan out a path, and guide the army to march against the stronghold. The Reds’ strategy of engaging the enemy with minimal force would backfire on them. The tactic recklessly relied on the ability of the ‘elites’ to be successful, but Casor was confident. At worst case scenario, they would… find some way.

They spent a night at the makeshift shelters provided by the Vimounts. The dawn brought with it a layer of fine fog that consumed both sound and thought. The mist was a double-edged sword: it hid their approach, but it also hid the enemy’s movements. Casor stepped into the moist dusk air, flexing his arms and carefully considering the conditions. He tested his magic and found it still functional. He continued stretching his body as he recalled the previous night.

It was a dream – that was no surprise. But it was not a nightmare. Soft, warm, comfortable… he remembered not wanting to wake up, but he couldn’t recall why. That night’s trip to the Fade was… beautiful. When he did open his eyes to the morning dew, it took quite a bit of effort to get out of bed, unusual for someone who held the view that sleep should be kept to the minimum and minimal.

Yerius and O’hana was already outside, quietly discussing something, their figures visible as an outline of darker shadow. They greet Casor with a gesture of a hand that was buried by white mist. Sigrun emerged from her tent, looking deceptively tired. He knew that she was actually _very_ eager for some action. Tal appeared right after her, her bow already unslung from her back, face expressionless as usual.

Casor felt a presence approach him tingling the back of his neck. He turned to find the rude elven mage leaning uncomfortably against his staff, fidgeting nervously with its leather grip.

“Avanna, magister Amell. I was hoping to accompany you for the attack today. You will need a capable thaumaturgist in the coming battle.” His voice shook from nervousness. It wasn’t difficult to see that this boy had not seen much blood, let alone been inside a battlefield. It was likely that he was going to be more of a nuisance than help. It was equally likely that he was going to cling onto his armor like a spoilt child (or Sten) asking for cookies if he was to refuse.

“Avanna. I thank you for your offer. However, we are about to face hundreds of enemies. This is no picnic – there will be blood. Are you sure?” Casor asked, hoping to scare the boy but failing to avoid the boy’s arrogance. The elf tightened his grip onto his staff and his eyes lit up in determination.

“I am. Though you are a magister too, I know I can still help.” He replied, looking directly into Casor’s eyes. Casor stood a head taller than the boy, and with years of coercion experience, he possessed a very intimidating gaze. The elf cringed from Casor’s stare, but refused to look away.

After a moment of silence, Casor found courage inside his hazel eyes and decided to trust it.

“That’s good. You’re help will be greatly appreciated.” Casor held out his hand. The boy brightened visibly, and stood a little taller.

“I am mysticus Airen Dalinev Venurandors. Asti a vala femundis.” Airen shook his hand firmly.

“Maker’s breath! _Another_ robe.” Came a whine from Casor’s back. He spun around and came face to face with a boxy Templar helmet.

“Morning, Sinnan.” Casor grumbled. He suddenly began to wonder why Sinnan was here at all. This Templar was supposed to be a Chantry missionary. What was he doing, tagging along with a Grey Warden?

“It seems we have gathered. Let us proceed.” Tal recommended, her crisp voice cutting through the mist like the sound of coins falling in the Chantry. A succession of cautious clangs followed as they began to march.

…

“Mysticus, could we spare some time?”

“Hmmm?” Casor fumbled with the massive map, trying to fold it in the ‘correct’ way and getting it all wrong. He opted for the roll-into-a-baton option and turned towards Airen.

“I wish to visit the Gods before the battle.” The elf said.

“It will take, my, ten…? Twenty minutes?” Yerius joined.

“I, too, wish to do so. Ahead lies the Templum.” O’hana added. Clearly these three had been wanting to ask this for some time.

Casor glanced uncertainly at Sinnan’s direction and was caught by Tal’s ever-persistent stare. She nodded and began to move towards Sinnan. The Templar subconsciously walked away from her and into the fog, taking especially talkative Sigrun with him. Casor silently applauded Tal’s situational awareness, though he couldn’t help but to feel a little haunted by her.

“Make it quick.”

The Old Gods worshippers mumbled quick thank-yous and jogged off into the fog. After a moment’s hesitation, he ran to join them.

“Just interested.” Casor answered Yerius’s questioning expression.

They soon arrived at a large, sturdily built tent, crowded with people despite the ridiculously early morning. A mood of respect normally reserved for funerals enveloped the area, making it very clear that this was a place of worship. A pile of weapons and shoes were arranged neatly around the tent, displaying a dazzling array of fighting styles in the West. Halberds, spikes (similar to the one that Alistair liked to twirl), longswords, crossbows, maces… did these guys even have a ‘standard weapon’?

“My, we’re late for the dawn service.”

Airen, Yerius, and O’hana added their own weapons and shoes to the pile.

“Please leave all weapons outside if you wish to enter. Shoes are also forbidden. Reverence must be maintained inside the templum.” Yerius said in a whisper Casor didn’t know Yerius could manage. He unhooked his murder knife and placed it under Yerius’ sword.

“You are a non-believer, yes? Yes, of course. My… just don’t make any fuss in front of the Gods.” Yerius advised as he ushered him into the tent.

His eyes took a brief time to adjust to the sudden darkness of the templum, and when it did, he gasped in surprise. The place was _beautiful_. Eight dragon statues lined the eerie darkness, each gleaming in their terrible allure. Dumat, in the centre, black, sitting with its wings spread wide, guarded by ghostly presence of cloaked servents. Zazikel, to its left, soft blue in a chaotic twisted shape, its eyes flashing in some aweful magic. Toth, on the far left, rose red and engulfed in real flames, light reflecting off its scales and into Casor’s eyes. Draconis, gleaming black, sitting with its tail curled, watching the worshippers. Andoral, grey and hunched, on Draconis’s right, its claws crushing into a pile of chains. Razikale, in the right corner, hidden behind a brown veil, with only its illusive shadows telling its presence. Luscan, pale moon-white, roaring on its hind legs, with a trail of incense wrapping around its figure. Each dragon was carved by a master; each one was alive in its unique way; each one indeed worthy of apotheosis.

Casor’s socked foot led him around the praying worshippers and in front of one particular dragon. Its altar was small, but filled with small offerings of various riches. His eyes traced its magnificent wings, the proud arch of its back, and the unbroken link of purple scales that made its hide smoother than silk. This was the enemy he had fought so hard to kill… yet now, he felt overwhelmed by its elegant beauty.

“Urthemiel” Casor breathed.

Was it right to now see her as a god? Was it right to arrogantly believe that he had slain this very dragon? Was it right that his son possessed this god’s soul? How did any of this make sense?

Casor stared into the statue’s eyes. It was only a statue. And a very inaccurate one at that – Urthemiel didn’t have four sets of horns. But still… something about the statue disturbed Casor’s memories.

…

_He coughed up blood. The last blow had ruptured his innards. He struggled up, calling down a lightning strike upon the dragon. It reeled, screaming, its legs finally giving out from underneath. Finally, this was his chance._

_He ran forward, gripping unto the sword that stuck out from a dead soldier and ignoring the screams of his dying muscles. The dragon knew its impending doom and threw itself against him. He ducked, driving the blade across the snake’s neck, covering himself in darkspawn blood. The archedemon’s head crashed into the ground, drawing its final breaths._

_He didn’t have strength to stand. Nor could he see straight. His breathing came in ragged gasps. He couldn’t feel his hands. Bitter blood fouled his mouth._

_He pushed himself forward. Then he lifted the blade. The world paused for a moment, mourning the death of a god. Then he sunk it into the dragon’s eye._

_What followed next was indescribable pain, blinding light, and feeling of absolute emptiness._

…

“And when the darkness consumes the world once more, the followers will be guided to gifts of the Gods.” A soldier murmured beside him.

Casor shook his head clear of illusions and forced eyes back into focus. He looked around the templum for the others and saw the elven mage still kneeling in front of Andoral. Why would an elf, with the history of slavery, pray to the Old God of Slaves? Yerius, who had put forward a coin for Dumat, also eyed the mage curiously as he snaked his way towards Casor. Behind him, O’hana gave one more bow to Draconis before turning towards the exit. They exited the templum together, still keeping the revered silence. They collected their weapons, replaced their footwear (Casor with clear difficulty) and waited patiently for Airen to finish his prayers.

“May I inquire, mysticus Amell?” O’hana asked.

“Certainly.” Casor was busy inspecting Airen’s staff. It was nicely made – polished wood, presumably oak, formed the dark brown body, tipped by tempered iron caps at the bottom. Light, sturdy, a little bendy, but not too badly. It used a translucent glass sphere as the focus tip, held in place by what was undoubtedly lyrium-infused leather.

“Are you a follower of the Gods, back in you lands?”

“No, unfortunately. Well… the Gods are forgotten by the people in Thedas.” Casor summoned a spell wisp through the staff and was pleasantly surprised at the staff’s quality.

“Oh…”

“Why?” Casor belatedly realised that O’hana was talking about religion and stopped fiddling with Airen’s staff. Religion was sensitive matter wherever you were, and he wanted to stay on O’hana’s good books. She was a noblewomen after all – she could be a very helpful person if he had to stay in the West.

“I have wondered as to why you would pay respects to the Gods. Especially to Urthemiel.”

“My my, yes. Why indeed? Don’t you also have a statue of Urthemiel in your pack?” Yerius joined.

Casor, in fact, did have a statue of Urthemiel in his pack, one that he ripped off Sinnan’s hands and had forgotten to return. He had felt a gleeful pride whenever he looked at the statue, the sort of pride that one regretted after facing something much bigger. Right now, he felt that exact regret.

“Ah… I will explain later. But I am not a follower of the Gods. I believe in the Maker.”

“The Maker?” They asked simultaneously. Thankfully, neither of them seemed offended by the fact he did not follow their religion.

“Just another religion. Don’t worry about it.” As he finished his sentence, Airen stepped out of the templum. He murmured thanks as Casor handed him his weapon.

“Are we ready? Let’s go before Sinnan throws a tantrum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Updated: Tactical Analysis of the Reds (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11785895)


	9. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Trust is a dangerous emotion. Faith, even worse. It forces you to surrender your mind, your soul, unconditionally. Its rewards only depend on to whom you gave your trust to." - Sinnan Suranna

Casor’s skin pulsed with tickles of mysterious sensation. Duty was in his hand, its unearthly weight straining against his muscles. Flaming magic was on stand-by, touching his fingers lightly like soft whispers; whispers of destruction. His sensed his way forward; the fleeting shadows, the muffled breaths, the changing wind, the tingling stink, the moist air. The party marched behind him, weapons all drawn and ready. They instinctively knew that the enemy was close by.

A murmur. Casor stopped, bringing the whole group into a tense halt.

The murmur persisted. A _growl_. Unsteady, but rhythmic; an echo. Like a rattle of dying breath. It was familiar, yet strange. Unsettling, repetitive, dangerous. It was a tune.

Sigrun trotted forward and whispered, “Do you sense it too?”

Casor nodded. “Seer was right. Red Lyrium is Tainted.”

“It feels different.” Sigrun replied.

“Yet the same.” Casor added.

They both flinched as the song began to louden. Sigrun and Casor shared one more glance before launching into action.

A fireball shot out from Casor’s hands, obliterating the path and revealing the enemy.

A dozen figures, armed with an assortment of blades, stood waiting for them. Half were on fire, the other half was glowing red from their own madness. There were dwarves, elves, and humans; brandishing their weapons and crazed faces alike. Though the fog warped their appearance, a brief sharp look was enough to reveal their ghastly nature.

Sigrun ran forward. Sickening crunches of bone and metal quickly followed, but the enemy did not falter. They moved in unison, like fingers of a rotten hand, taking in her blows and lashing out from behind. Casor launched a Stonefist at the nearest enemy and entered the fray, whirling his Duty with a deadly flair. His blade came into contact with a Red’s neck, cutting it cleanly at the base, then ploughed into a second’s chest, his ears savouring the sound of heavy ripping of muscle. Flakes of red lyrium scattered into the air and bounced of his barriers. He stabbed a third Red with Duty’s back blade, then trapped a fourth in a Prison. His feat shifted, dancing to the tune of the Taint, tasting the deadly beats of iron, breath, and magic. He let his instincts take over, unleashing ice across the entire battlefield. Duty screeched across the air shattering the frozen limbs. The Reds, surprisingly, continued to swing their blades despite their mangled bodies.

The friendly party moved into action, cutting down the enemy in their own style. O’hana and Tal provided an impressively barrage of arrows, while Sinnan and Yerius began to drill into the enemy. Airen also began launching spells, taking backward steps to avoid the lyrium.

The fight was over almost as soon as it began. The bodies that had first caught fire by Casor’s fireball were only beginning to smoke out. Casor twisted his blade one last time inside a Red’s gut before dissipating Duty.

“I… I did it! I… Of course. Of course I did it.” Airen stammered. He circled the area cautiously, his eyes shining from pride.

“That was almost too easy.” Sigrun replied, nudging a body with her boots.

“Prowess of strength, you possess and display.” O’hana complimented. She pulled out an arrow from a Red’s head, flicked off the blood, and placed it back into her quiver.

“My, my. I do not wish to face the called Captains. These Soldiers are bad enough.” Yerius said as he checked his shield for dents.

“This one was a Captain.” Casor crouched over a body. An uncanny intuition whispered in his head. Listening to its advice, he pulled out his murder knife. He dug the blade into the half-burnt Red’s breastplate, cutting open his chest.

“Maker’s Breath! Must you do that?” Sinnan spun around, retching up at the sight. Airen glanced over his shoulders, turned green, and then moved into the forest to empty his bowls. Casor bluntly ignored them and continued to dissect the corpse. It was difficult process; an unusually dense muscle mass impeded his progress. He eventually pulled out the left lung then gasped at what he saw – the heart, bloated and black, was punctured with a large piece of red lyrium.

“Sigrun, take a look.” Casor said, spreading open the cut for a better view.

“Brutal.” came her verdict.

“Do you have a bag?” He asked, cutting off the arteries. Sigrun rummaged her pockets and produced a large sheepskin pouch. Casor pulled off the crystalline heart and placed in in the bag, then sealed it with wax.

“Teth a!” Came a sudden cry, and Casor felt a rush of air behind his neck. He spun, summoning Honor, and smashed his shield into the enemy’s face. Casor stared in shock as the creature stumbled – it was a Monster, ones that they called a “Shadow”. Two more appeared as the first recovered, jabbing their lance arms with frightening speed. Only an instinctive spark of lightening saved him from the onslaught.

“By the Stone!” Sigrun exclaimed, swinging her axes into the pair of Shadows, deep into their torso. They continued to twitch from electricity as they died.

“We must not let our guard down.” Tal said. She held out a fourth Shadow in her arms like a stuffed doll. It had a curious blade sticking out of its head, but before he could get a closer look, Tal removed had removed her weapon from the corpse and sheathed it.

“My shortcoming. I should have been on guard. Come. We still have some distance to go.” Casor said. He hooked the lyrium heart into his belt, doing his best to ignore its disturbing weight.

…

The group came across larger and larger groups of Reds, but they were ready. He devised a tactic – start with a burst of fire, followed by few disabling spells, then a short hand-to-hand combat (casting the occasional Hand of Winter). Finally, a sweep of the area with an aura, just in case a Shadow remained hidden. It worked quite effectively, and they weren’t surprised again. However, the fatigue of battle quickly began set in, and Casor found his mana severely reduced, and his regeneration slow. He replenished his mana as often as he could with the blood of the corpses (when Sinnan wasn’t looking, of course), but it wasn’t quite enough.

The fog thinned as the day progressed. They rested briefly (and very uncomfortably) in haunting remnants of a destroyed village before making the final push. After two, three hours of fighting, they finally came to the gytas.

It was a dwarven structure alright – made of dark-grey stone, roughly trapezoid, walls lined with large triangular crossbeams, outlined in black sandstone. A single, wide staircase up into the stronghold’s forebodingly elevated gates. For some bizarre reason, Casor was sure he had seen it before… déjà vu?

“Is it just me, or is that Kal’Hirol on the surface?” Sigrun said.

That’s it! He knew he had seen the design before. The gytas looked exactly like Kal’Hirol’s fortress, both in size and shape. He nodded enthusiastically as he recalled the expedition through the deep roads almost a decade ago.

“Does that mean that the secret entrance is there?” Casor pointed to the carving that, back in Thedas, hid the Kal’Hirol’s entrance. Perhaps the design was exactly the same?

“Don’t be ridiculous. Each fortress is different.” Sigrun rebuked him with a laugh. Casor smiled sheepishly at his foolishness.

“My, I believe our mission is half complete. Are we safe here?” Yerius asked. Casor looked around – they were on a large hill that _looked_ safe enough. Years of experience told him that believing in illusions was the fastest road to death on the battlefield. He set a Glyph of Repulsion at the most obvious chokepoint before replying. “Probably not. But safe enough. If you can’t find us here when you get back, then follow a path of destruction to get to us. Good luck!”

Yerius grinned in an overly assuring way before turning around and embarking on a return journey. Airen and Sigrun also waved a good-bye before setting off with him. Casor hoped that they would make it back safely.

…

“Embrium? I found some as we were coming here.”

“Thank you, mysticus Amell, but I shall refuse.”

“Good idea. It’s sour. Must be the weather killing it.”

They sprawled across the snowy hilltop like nobles on a lazy Sunday morning, relaxing a quiet afternoon in the heart of enemy territory. The weather was a little chilly to be doing nothing, but staying in the sunshine was enough to keep them warm. The mist had completely cleared, giving them an unobstructed view to the land around them and, by extension, any approaching danger. Nobody had so far bothered them, but as Tal pointed out, that could be a trap. Casor was reading the fourth book on the history of the West, using O’hana as a human Tevene dictionary (she herself was grudgingly reading a book). He started to gnaw at another Embrium, wondering how he had come to like eating herbs. It probably started with drinking health poultices back in the Blight. It wasn’t his fault, really – Alistair drank it first, and Casor just assumed that the bitter tasting paste was a potion. Even after Morrigan pointed out that it was supposed to be _applied_ not _consumed_ , they continued to pour the reddish paste down their throats for the convenience in battle.

“Grey Warden.” Tal had appeared beside him, giving him a very minor heart attack. How in the Maker’s name did she manage to be so ghostlike? Casor snapped his book shut and hooked it into his belt.

“What is it?”

“There is an enemy army on approach.”

So they had finally found us. Should we fight? Casor’s mana had now refilled, so he felt ready to take on a few hundred Reds.

“From the roadside.”

“Pardon?”

“Enemy is approaching from the road path.”

Casor pounced up, hustling towards Tal’s outstretched finger. She pointed directly at a large cluster of enemies making a fast approach towards their position.

With a trebuchet.

That fired burning oil sacks.

“Maker’s Breath! Quick! Towards the gytas!” Casor said, forming a barrier for the party. They rambled down the hillside, dodging the meteors of fire that set the hill alight as soon they left it.

“Wouldn’t the structure be…” Sinnan began to complain, his helmet still crooked from the nap he was taking.

“Filled with enemies. Yes. But I prefer that over that siege weapon! Maker! That’s designed to be used against _stone walls_!” Casor cut him short, weighing the possibilities as quickly as his head could manage. He supposed he _could_ try to take down the trebuchet, but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to reach the groaning weapon without being burnt to crisp. Besides, the Reds surrounding it seemed to manning a portable ballista. He was hit once with a ballista back during the Blight; and once was enough. He daren’t not approach a siege weapon lightly after that encounter.

“Incoming!” O’hana shouted. Casor tried using Winter’s Breath on the projectile, which unfortunately made it explode mid-air, showering them with fireflies. It burnt through their cloth, and nibbled their skin before extinguishing against the cold air.

“Bad idea! Run!” Casor shouted.

As they neared the gytas, its owners decided that it did not want to host four scared travellers and began feeding them with arrows. Sinnan ran up the stairs, doing his best to cover them with his shield. Casor also contributed with his Honor.

“O’hana! Hit the door! Watch for traps!”

She ran past the pair of shieldsmen and hurled herself against the heavy wooden gates, which flung open too easily. She rolled into more Reds, displaying her non-too-shabby close quarter combat skills. Tal rushed forward to join her, sheathing her bow and finally revealing her mysterious daggers – long, curved blades, colored red, with hilts crafted out of horns of unknown origin.

Casor and Sinnan fought briefly at the doorframe before being sprayed by a misfire of the trebuchet. They brought the fight inside and managed to shut the door before another ball of flame hit them.

“A little help would be appreciated!” Tal shouted, struggling against a Captain.

“And that’s why I hate the smell of oil in the morning!” Casor shouted.

…

“Nobody hurt?” Casor asked, elevating his voice above the hum of the Calling. He gave his last enemy a good kick in the face. Almost a fifty Reds had flooded the halls, including the trebuchet team that managed to break down the door. His mana pool was drained once again, and he could also feel the weakening of the Veil as he used Death Syphon to replenish it. He nursed a gash across his arm; a farewell gift from a Shadow, which Casor had replied with an overcharged Lightning Strike. Healing spells, unfortunately, weren’t compatible with his blood magic, so he had to settle for bandages.

“Tired, but alive. It is good to hear you, mysticus.” O’hanna replied from the next room.

“I, too, am alive.” Sinnan replied, also somewhere further away.

Casor waited for more, but nothing came. His heart began beating faster, still waiting…

“Tal?” Casor shouted as O’hana and Sinnan entered the room.

Silence. It filled the rooms to the brink and poured into Casor’s consciousness like some dark poison.

“Tal!” Casor shouted louder, then strained his ears for any sound.

There was a sound from much further in the structure. He ran towards the sound, keeping vigilant note of the increasing amount of corpses as he approached the inner halls of the gytas. The stone pillars echoed their footsteps (especially Sinnan’s, due to his metal boots) that played in their earlobes, announcing their presence to the dead enemy…

Casor came to yet another large wooden door, illuminated by peculiar green torches that highlighted streaks of runes across the timber. Reddish light oozed out and spilled out of the slightly ajar door. If any of Varric’s tragic novels or cheap horror tales taught him anything, there was always something bad behind a door like this.

Casor summoned Duty and pushed the door open with the tip of the blade. Sure enough, the evil stereotype did not disappoint. The room behind the door was a library, not unlike Seer Pervanti’s, except it was infested by giant red crystals, resembling the heart that he had dissected earlier and still hung disturbingly from his belt. Though behind the relative safety of his barriers, Casor felt the lyrium’s mana shifting the very Veil in the room. Two figures inhabited the room; one gave him chills and another gave him a relief… Well, sort of, for Tal was trapped inside a paralysis spell, frozen in firing position, her bow drawn to breaking point.

“Another guest, I see. Ah… the Hero of Ferelden. Spirits have talked about you…” The man sitting on top of a large chunk of red lyrium spoke in a torn voice. He wore a set of elven-style mage robes and a cowl, and had a crazed twisted look that undoubtedly marked him has the ‘bad guy’. The sort of guy that you could kill in the middle of a market and no-one would report the incident to the guards. But what he said was disconcerting especially with him holding a large wrinkled red orb that sparked with power – the Artefact.

“A Seer?” Casor thought out aloud, timidly approaching the man.

“Seer Koscus is my name. I wonder… why is a Thedosian here? How did you find about the Orb?” Koscus asked. His hands stroked the item, which flaked flames under his touch. Casor decided wisely that this man wasn’t dangerous at all – it was the item that was giving him power. Casor didn’t bother replying and wondered if a Glyph of Neutralisation could sedate the… what was it called? Orb? That thing’s power. Probably no… that Orb was obviously beyond his capabilities.

“Ah… I guess the only person who would do this is Pervanti. Dear old Pervanti. Much like the dear old Tal. What shall I do with you?” Koscus continued to scrape his throat with the voice. This man had to die soon.

After a count of three, he summoned Duty and charged at the man.

As he did so, Tal’s spell expired, and she sent her arrow flying. The crazed man exploded in magic, destroying the arrow and sending the attacker flying. Casor staggered at the power of the spells, his Duty shattering upon impact. He was flung into the wall, winded, along with O’hana, who handed on top his arm, and Tal, who was pushed into a bookshelf. Sinnan, however, was different. Instead of being affected by the spell, he collapsed…

In his place stood a mammoth creature with iron-purple skin, countless bloodshot eyes and two electric whips. It roared, shaking off the bits of Templar armor that lay crumpled on its shoulders.

SINNAN HAD TURNED INTO A PRIDE DEMON.

The demon roared and ran straight at the Seer, who launched a furious wave of spells. Casor struggled up and watched the duel, unable to muster up strength. He couldn’t believe it. Some Fade shit was going on. Surely. All these red lyrium. Something was definitely going wrong.

A bright light flashed inside the demon’s chest, and it screamed as it melted… and shifted… and turned… into FEAR.

His guts twisted at the realisation.

He _had_ to do something before it got to the Orb. Both of them had to die. _Now_. He summoned Glory, and sprinted towards the demon, which managed to reach the hysterical and dying Seer. It ripped out the Seers’ arms and seized the Orb greedily, sending out terrifying waves of power that shook the earth.

Casor jumped, stabbing the demon through its back. It screeched, turned, and slashed him across his face, cutting open his cheek. Casor jumped back and launched a Fireball, but the demon dispelled it, only to be hit by Casor’s Lightning. It screamed, twisted and morphed into a high dragon, roaring at Casor. He braced himself for another attack, but instead it opted to escape through the roof. Tal and O’hana was running towards Casor when the stone roof gave in, crushing them beneath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Updated: Beliefs in the West (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11901422)


	10. What is Needed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do not fear, my child, for even at the darkest of the moments, the World whispers hope." - Wynne

Casor opened his eyes, a nasty migraine hitting the insides of his skull. He instinctively moved his hands to his head and found the left one immobile. He took time to adjust to his surroundings, and realised that he was facing down, not up, and the surroundings were _not_ the sort of surrounding to adjust to. Crumbled piles of rock and debris scattered the ground, some large enough the crush a man flat, himself saved by ‘no-giant-rocks-falls-on-top-of-good-guys’ luck. However, he was still trapped under a collapsed pillar. Few yard to his right, O’hana crouched over Tal, trying her best to wake her up.

He breathed deeply, waiting for the pain to subside. He closed his eyes and forced himself to identify the injuries – burning sensation in the lower leg, a muscle ache at the hips, chill of magic damage in the abdomen, and wet throbbing pain in his arm. Damn… he was a mess.

Lime-tasting dust filled the air like the morning’s mist, making him cough – consequently sending a strike of pain behind his temples. He groaned, bringing O’hana’s attention to him. He forced out a grin. She rushed to his side.

“Be calm, Amell. Of a bad predicament we are in, for you are under a rock I cannot move. Belief I have in Tal to move it, but she too is unconscious.” O’hana said soothingly. Her face was one of abstained horror, clouded with the fear for his injuries.

“At least you’re fine. How bad do I look?” Casor asked.

“The exact degree of severity I am uncertain of. Though I fear you may be badly injured.” O’hana said as she scanned his body. Her face only darkened as her eyes travelled down his body.

“ _Fuck…_ There’s nothing you can do right now. Go, take care of Tal.” Casor said. O’hana smiled a little and moved back to Tal, giving him time to think.

Casor inhaled the dusty air, letting his spells do the best they can to repair the damage.

He groaned again, not out of pain, but out of anger. He had fucked up. _Fucked up_. Sinnan… that _fucking_ thing. It was a demon – one that he knew too well: Formless One. He had killed its fellow, Gaxkang, back during the Blight. Maybe it had come back for a revenge. Well, fuck. It got its revenge. Now it had the Orb, he was injuried, and it was free.

It must have played along to all his questions with glee. Waiting for him to take it to the Orb… all the way from Thedas. How long since it planned this whole thing? He had… known. He had known! Of course! The burst of flame in the Ashes, and in Etala! Maker! Why had he not realised earlier!

Fuuuuck. What was it going to do now? What could a demon with such a powerful artefact possibly be doing?

Okay, calm down. Calm the _fuck_ down. Think.

Casor breathed deeply again, and coughed. He had to wait for the pain to pass before resuming his spirals of thought.

Sinnan wasn’t yet strong enough to face him – that bit was obvious. It must have known about his slaying of Gaxkang, and decided not to face him head on. However, once it unlocked the power of the Orb, it may become something unkillable. He had to hunt it down and destroy it before that could happen.

A soft groan came from his side as Tal finally woke, tending to her own migraine before getting up at O’hana’s urging. Together they managed to lift the stone off Casor, and found his leg broken and his arm wound (from the Shadow merely ten minutes ago) reopened. The cold burn in his abdomen was painful, but it could heal on its own…

“Maker’s balls. You know what’s bad for business? A broken leg.” Casor joked as he began to examine the wounds. His leg was askew in a fascinatingly disgusting angle, and an open wound showed through the torn leather. Blood began to spew out a rather startlingly fast, soaking his clothes and the ground below. Pain shot up his legs and stabbed at his brain, but Casor refused to show it. His arm was a little better – a gurgling gash in tight skin, half-filled with congealed blood. Both limbs weren’t pretty.

“Human, do you have anything to act as a splint?” Tal said as she produced some bandages from her hip bag.

“No, don’t… Just do my arm, would you?” he said. He watched as Tal spread hemostatis powder across the wound and wrapped it tightly. The trio soon turned their attention to his leg.

“I got this.” Casor gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and forced the broken pieces apart. Tal and O’hana watched in horror as the wound began to pour out even more blood.

“What are you doing?” O’hana cried, her eyes wide with surprise. Casor whimpered, his hands shaking from the pain, and then stopped. Then, with another strained grunt, he cast a spell.

Under his hands, the bones came together and righted itself. The blood stopped flowing, the skin closed up, and soon all redness was gone. Casor exhaled deeply, his upper body still shaking from the shock.

“Wow…” O’hana said.

“Shouldn’t’ve done it. Hell. Here… help me up.” Casor breathed. O’hana offered her hand, but Tal came first and lifted him off the ground, setting him down with gentle care. Casor gave out a weak laugh while he writhed his hands together to stop them from shaking.

“What in the ancestors’ names happened here?”

“Sigrun?”

A short figure scrambled up the debris, her blue Warden armor red from bloodstains. Her rare puffing was indicative a hard fight. She ran straight towards Casor, fretting over his injuries.

“You alright Commander? You look pale! And your cheek… What was that dragon?”

“I am alive... And the dragon… I’ll explain when we get back to camp.”

…

The army of Reds was broken. Leaderless, they were soon rounded up and massacred by the remaining elven army in the following days. General Tarin and Vannel both congratulated them for ending the conflict and offered to hold a party. Casor, having recovered from his injury thanks to Sigrun’s intensive care (and blood magic), refused, and knew that neither he nor Sigrun was welcome here any longer. Considering their Warden-sized appetite, their hurry to send them away was understandable.

So… what to do now?

His goal was still simple; find the Orb. Kill Sinnan. Not for revenge; no. He had never really trusted Sinnan enough to feel betrayed. Besides, what good was revenge against a demon? But he had to make sure that the fiend did not become a bane to this world. He also needed the stupid Orb to live. But… exactly what did he have to do next? What could one do in strange lands if he needed to hunt down a sly, shapeshifting demon? Yerius had already sent word to the Order of Reclamations, asking for any information on dragon sightings. Casor had also asked O’hana to contact her family and see if she could use her influence to search for Sinnan, but she too could do nothing for now.

The biggest problem was that nobody believed in Sinnan. The Reds were seemingly gone, and nobody believed in his story of the Forbidden Ones. Airen argued that no demon could be so powerful outside the Fade, O’hana tentatively suggested that it was a ‘Seer-cursed hallucination’, and Yerius was simply psyched out about all the discussion of magic. Only Sigrun and Tal believed his explanation and took his warnings seriously.

Casor reached up and felt the wound on his cheek. It had healed well, but Casor knew it was to leave a scar. Leliana won’t be pleased. He didn’t bother checking his arm or his leg – they _definitely_ would leave a scar.

“Warden Amell.” Came a voice outside the tent. He got up from the writing desk and exited to find Tal standing timidly outside. She was, for the first time he had seen her, looking at the ground, with her shoulders slightly dropped and was biting gently on her lips. Her sudden female qualities almost shocked Casor.

“Yes Tal?” With a wave of a hand he initiated a walk towards the riverfront.

“I must make an apology.”

“About?”

“I had known about the identity of the man wielding the artefact.”

That was, strangely, not surprising. After all, Tal did have a freaky-level insight into almost everything ever.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

Casor watched her expectantly, completely forgetting that she was a Qunari. She continued to walk facing forward, and it took him a whole full minute to realise that she was not going to continue.

“Care to explain? By the way, apology accepted.”

“The man was known as Seer Koscus. My mission was to eliminate him and remove him of his power.”

“Mission from whom, may I ask?” Casor avoided a man carrying three large boxes.

“Seer Pervanti.”

“Ah. So that’s why you tagged along.”

“Yes.” They reached the river now, staring at the docks that was busy with a departing army. Majority of the forces had pulled out by now, and only a few clean-up crew remained. The bars were going to be a little less loud next week.

“Well, what will you do now?”

“I will continue to accompany you until my mission is accomplished.”

“That Seer is dead, you know.”

This was an undoubtable truth – they had found his mangled corpse merely a few metres away from where Casor was crushed. If he wasn’t dead, then neither was Andraste.

“The Seer is dead, but his power is not.”

“Mysticus!”

A runner boy ran towards them then stumbled back when he saw Tal. The sudden clash between his running speed and his stunned backtracking tripped him over, making him land backwards in the dirt. Casor, holding in the laugh as best he could, helped him up.

“Thank you, mysticus Amell. I have news for you from Tevinatarium.”

The boy handed him a scroll of rich vellum, sealed at its ends by blossom-shaped decorations. The level of humanistic extravagance could only come from one place – the Ignagyris.

…

Casor twisted his foot in the dirt, standing near the docks with all of his gear packed and ready for another journey. He hated the waiting, the inability to do something, the suppressed limitations of time; the moment when uncertainty of the future bares its blade upon your fears. Of course, this particular wait wasn’t so baleful – he was just waiting for O’hana to find a boat to Tevinatarium. Still, he hated waiting.

“Amell, do you want this?” Sigrun asked.

Casor looked down at her compact figure, her strong arms carrying her overflowing pack in one hand and offering a book in the other. A golden sun was carved into the wooden cover of the book, and Casor immediately recognised it as the same book that Sinnan was carrying. He took it carefully from her hands and opened it to a random page. His lips whispered along as his eyes traced the tiny but incredibly familiar words:

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. For in their blood shall the Maker’s will is written._

“Canticle of Benediction, verses four; ten and eleven… where did you get this?”

“From Sinnan. I forgot to give it back after I stole it again. Is it legitimate? Not filled with some demonic writings?”

Casor flicked to another page; his favorite Canticle, one of the few that he knew off by heart.

“Canticle of Trials versus one; fourteen. _Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost…_ Yes. It’s legitimate. Thank you.”

Sigrun grinned at his thoughtful face and left him be, letting the powers of the Maker heal him. Casor continued to silently read the Canticles for a long time. For some reason, these words brought warmth to his heart; warmth known commonly as Faith. He was, in no way, a devout believer. Nor was his position so dire that it required the guidance of the Chant. Yet he found himself moved by the verses written centuries ago; the same verses that guided countless others before him, and will undoubtedly guide countless more after. It was as though the Maker himself had sent him a small word of encouragement, made more remarkable that it came through a demon.

“Amell! A passage I have found to our destination. We, in ten minutes, need to board.” O’hana said as she approached. He gave her a thumbs up, though he kept his eyes on the book.

“I can’t believe they almost refused to take me! Me! A magister!”

Upon hearing the second voice, Casor lifted his head to see Airen walking beside O’hana, also bearing a rucksack and warmer-looking robes that were, surprisingly (or perhaps unsurprisingly), very similar to the apprentice robes that he used to wear back in the Tower. Casor lifted his eyebrow questioningly which O’hana answered with a politely irritated expression.

“Airen? Will you be accompanying us to Tevinatarium?” Casor asked.

“I will. It will be interesting to see what the human capital looks like.” He replied, doing his best to hold down his excitement. Casor mentally advised him to stop smiling first if he wished to look detached.

“So… two mages, three rogues, and no warriors?” Sigrun answered, half complaining about their lack of tactical balance and half complaining about Airen. He gave a soft kick at her popliteal.

Yerius had left the previous night, apologising for his inability to stay. He had been called by the Order and needed to visit Snowclad Peak. He had promised to join Casor again as soon as he was able. The presumably half-dwarven warrior had slipped him a packet of smoking weeds before he left, smiling in a way that was sure to hurt the cheek muscles. Casor was sorry to see him go, but had a strange feeling that they were going to meet again.

“Welcome aboard then!” Casor said. He knew that he would have to babysit the boy in Tevinatarium – he was around ‘that age’ of running into a city, getting excited by everything, and creating trouble. After a thought, he smiled, realising that having Airen wasn’t so bad after all – or else, he would be the only damned male in the party.

…

His head moved gently from side to side, a leaf swaying in soft wind, rocking with the swells of the river that carried the boat to Tevinatarium. His arms were crossed tightly on his chest, resting on top of the Griffin breastplate that was miraculously undented after the ordeal at the gytas. His figure was wrapped in comforting shadows the mast, which billowed with the occasional gust. His feet dangled comfortably off the yard, nudging the riggings high above the deck of the two masted ship. His teardrop necklace lay slightly grasped by his right hand, reflecting the sun’s light with an equally beautiful shade of gold.

The past week’s journey back up the river wasn’t all that unpleasant. Between Airen’s puffed up excitement at his first view of the world and Sigrun’s constant complaints of food, Casor could almost forget about his impending doom, a week’s lack of bathing, and the task of demon hunting ahead. He had taken the time to learn more about this strange world, especially of the man who had sent him the letter of invitation. 

Archon Kerashaw VI was a man in his mid fifties, having held the position of High Priest of Dumat (and consequently the King of Tevinatarium) for almost thirty years. He was the head of the Talon house, the once-smallest house that Kerashaw had masterfully manoeuvred into the most influential in Tevinatarium. According to O’hana, the Archon was capable of the subtlest manipulations, and had incredible motivation and drive to achieve his goals...

The noise on the riverbanks steadily increased to a dull roar as their ship glided towards the Tevinatarium docks. The river cut through the center of the large city, snaking its way around the Castle Itwing and across the colorful marketplace. The walls that had cleanly seen countless iterations of improvements and battles alike surrounded an area about the size of Val Royeaux, but numerous houses spilled out into the surrounding countryside, infusing the landscape with a unique human flavor. The whole city was built on an elevated hillside, creating an awesome vertical view for the travelers on the river.

Airen, who had been watching with sparkling eyes, secretly gasped and pointed at the passing fascinations, while Sigrun openly gasped and pointed at the passing fascinations. Their constant questions dried O’hana’s mouth, but she remained cheerful, acting almost like a mother to her new dwarf and elf children. Tal watched silently at the group as they chatted away at the ship’s deck, her hand on her daggers, her head covered in a hood. She glanced up at the Thedosian mage, wondering if he was asleep.

A gentle bump rocked the boat as they pulled into Tevinatarium’s checkpoint. The ship was boarded by a few soldiers, asking for identities with the usual gruffness of a bored watchmen. Their attitude changed quickly when O’hana gave her identity, and after a few quick orders and a hurried bow, managed to find out where their convoy was waiting.

Sigrun looked behind to find Casor still sitting on top of the mast, his position unchanged.

“Amell! We’re here! Wake up!”

Casor stirred, yawned widely until it hurt his mouth, and gave her a thumbs-up. After a few tight stretches to waken the muscles, he placed his necklace inside his armor and leisurely slid down the mast, taking careful time to look at his surroundings.

“Yes. We are here.”

Avannatius, Tevinatarium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Updated: Communicating in the West (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/12024950)


	11. City of Tevinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rationalism and Ideals are the last things seen on the political stage. This is because those two things are the tools which unseats a tyrant's position." - Anders-Amell Manifesto, (ver. 9:25 Dragon)

Casor’s head hit the ceiling with a startlingly loud bang, reducing him into a whining man that made unintelligible sounds.

“You alright, Amell?” Sigrun asked the cowering figure.

Casor nodded while rubbing the swelling bulge furiously. “I hate carriages.”

“Apologies mysticus Amell, if you find our…” O’hana began. Casor waved her away.

“No, no! I appreciate your hospitality. I just happen to disfavor enclosed spaces.”

The vehicle jumped again as it hit another bump, smashing his head again on the same spot.

“Asssk! Tssss…” He hissed, as is hoping that those weird and unintelligible sounds would somehow make the pain go away. Needless to say, it didn’t.

Oblivious to his’s pains, the two carriages hurtled along the busy Tevinatarium roads towards the spires of Castle Itwing, passing by the curious crowd that recognized the royal dragon seal on the horses’ harnesses. The word had already spread that some special guest had come to the city – a pair of warriors that came from the fable lands of Thedas. It was said that one could breathe fire, and the other could eat a house! Although the crowd didn’t entirely believe in the stories, they had heard of their role in calming the supposed Red Armies in the Whitefields. Whoever these warriors were, they were going to be a spectacle, a welcome change from the unsettling shadow of war.

Unfortunately for the small crowd, the carriage trundled into the Castle’s portcullis and into the private, secluded corner of the Itwing courtyard, emptying its disheveled occupants onto the lush green garden and a small gathering of ambassadors.

“Avannatius Tevinatarium, mysticus Amell, Vi’hessan, and umbritrix Sigrun! An honor, it is, for you to make presence in the Castle Itwing. Please, come. Your belongings shall be moved to your rooms with hopes that you will enjoy your accommodation. Princess Irimae?”

O’Hana nodded and followed two of the ambassadors back to the portcullis, disappearing into a smaller wing of the castle. Casor caught a fleeting glance of her countenance, which was mysteriously empty of emotions. Something was going awry, but he couldn’t identify what it was… a game of political Wicked Grace had begun.

Casor, Sigrun, Airen, and Tal were led the other way, entering the main building of the castle. Sigrun’s eyes widened in response to the magnificent hall that was unveiled as the metal gates swung open (the other two kept their faces firm and empty). Marble beams held up the ceilings, three stories above the ground, decorated in every corner by a master stonemason. Ancient images of the Old Gods, though scaled down to a quarter of their actual size, were carved into the walls, the paintwork vibrant and threatening. Giant tapestries hung from the crossbeams, filling the hall with even more dragons and eating up the echo of their footsteps across the light slate floor. Life-sized stained glass men and women created colorful shadows that illuminated the room. At the edge of the hall was an elevated platform where, unsurprisingly, a throne resided.

The hall was flanked by an army of heavily armed guards, filling the gaps between the pillars in motionless wall of iron, punctured by occasional mass of fancy clothes of the nobles or high-end officials who has only seen the pommel-end of a weapon. Together they created an atmosphere of superiority which Casor was all too familiar with. On the throne sat a middle-aged man with magnificent red robes that flowed down to the first of the three steps of the platform, the sort that was designed to be used by three people – one wearing it, and two trying desperately to stop the wearer from tripping.

“A welcome, mysticus Amell, umbritrix Sigrun. A delight it is to welcome such honorable guests to the halls of Itwing. Kerashaw, the Archon of Tevinter and Messenger of Dumat is my title.” The Archon spoke loudly, projecting his voice throughout the hall, demanding the authority that Casor could give a nug’s ass about. It was interesting that this man had decided to bluntly ignore Tal and Airen, who were standing mere steps behind him.

“Avanna, Archon of Tevinter. Grey Warden Casor Amell. I am grateful for your generous invitation.” Casor replied with an equally powerful voice.

“I am Sigrun, Grey Warden and the Legion of the Dead scouts-women.” Though Sigrun was not well-versed in the field of politics, she stood a good chance against these idiots with her quick wits. After all, the skills needed to survive a courtroom were not too dissimilar to the skills needed to survive the backstreets.

“Of what purpose do you come to our empire?” The archon asked. He did not wear a mask, but he may as well have been – and that mask would be called ‘superiority complex’. He was slouching in his chair, shoulders puffed up, fingers interwoven, looking down at him with his chin held a lot higher than necessary; the Archon was subtlety asking to submit to his authority. His attitude was understandable, considering that they were unknown beings already rumored to have great powers, but still unacceptable.

“I seek aid in hunting down a demon.” Casor replied, cocking his head just that tiny bit. There was a momentary silence as he and the Archon looked at each other.

“I see. How long, do you plan, to stay with the glories of Tevinatarium?” The Archon asked quietly.

“As long as your hospitality remains, or if my duty calls elsewhere, my Archon.” Casor bowed, smirking as he straightened himself. An even longer silence followed, which only one side of the hall seemed to be enjoying.

“Awaiting us is a welcoming feast, down in the Hall of Festives. It will be a crime if it were to go cold. Allow us to continue our conversation there.”

The archon began to step down the platform, bringing his guards into action. Casor watched bemusedly as they cautiously led the Archon away from him, and only began to move himself after the hall began to clear, his feet making wide and deliberate steps that made a soft thump against the carpet.

…

Casor took a sip and wiped his mouth with his middle finger, briefly glancing down at his silver ring before lifting the cup again to his lips, this time for a proper gulp. The ring was, of course, still silvery, making him wonder briefly why he was still paranoid about his drinks being poisoned. If worst comes to worst, he would be poisoned and he would die. Of course it would be nice to live longer, but that didn’t fully explain his obsession of checking everything he drank. This habit probably arose back during the Blight, when he had first recruited Zevran. Although he had decided to let that elven assassin live, he hadn’t taken any chances; he ordered the elf’s daggers to be stowed under Sten’s bed at night and had not let him cook or prepare any food. Only when Zevran had saved him from another assassin did Casor finally decide to trust him. But that took three months – long enough for a habit of poison checking to set. Ironically, it was Zevran who had given him this silver ring when he had visited him in Antiva, still laughing at Casor’s paranoia.

“Of peculiar circumstance and times you visit us, mysticus. Yet glad we are for the delightful distraction from out duties and shadows of yet another civil war.” The man on his right said.

Urgh! Who was this guy again? High priest of Zazikel, right? Some general or something. He could care less. He did have an impressive arm-hair though.

“I am delighted to be here, um…”

“Vimount Pactiscion, mysticus. With certainty I claim that you will enjoy our glorious city of Tevinter. It is truly an amazing power, and we are blessed with…” The man continued on and on. It was true that his talk was reasonably entertaining, but it was rubbish talk – no real value to it at all. Clearly this man wasn’t trying to befriend him, and it seemed to Casor that the Vimount didn’t enjoy talking any more than he did. Then what did he want?

Casor forced his aching muscles to smile for the hundredth time. Usually, going into a feast was an enjoyable event – talking to friends and getting to know others. If such feast had a political agenda to it, then Leliana was always there for him, keeping him in check by giving him a sharp poke every time he got overexcited. But Leliana was at least a continent away, and there were no friends here. Even the food were too exotic for his taste, and the liquor too strong for him to savor (Casor suspected that this was done on purpose by the Archon to loosen his lips). The feast was something close to torture, with only thing enjoyable being the music. Casor smiled as he listened to the unique tune, thinking that Leliana would probably play the lute better than them.

The other end of the hall burst into laughter, centered by hyperactive Airen. By the looks of it, the boy had drank two full cups of the liquor and was already intoxicated. Surrounded by girls (again, Casor was certain this was done on purpose), he had completely forgotten about how rude the Archon was to him an hour ago (oh how much did that elf _winged!_ I’m a magister, I deserve respect, I’m this, I that…). The elf waved at a servant and whispered something in his ear, before sending him away and returning to his 90% female audience. Ten seats to the right, Sigrun was politely making conversation with her neighbors, coaxing her way through their talk while secretly downing more than four men’s worth of food. More than likely she was getting some useful information out of the conversation. She glanced over at Casor, and they shared a quick nod before resuming her talk. Casor had always admired her silver tongue: many would tell him that he too had a silver tongue, but his own speech skills were horrible for extracting information. It was, however, quite useful when he needed to do some persuading (or intimidating). Tal was in the corner, at the far end of the hall, eating silently. Oh he would have given a hundred bag of royals just to swap seats with her!

Just then, a servant returned to Airen with his staff. The girls cheered and Casor’s stomach did a somersault. That elf was too drunk to perform any proper magic – let alone a safe one. This could turn out badly.

Bits of fire leaked out of the elf’s staff as he swayed onto it for balance. This _definitely_ was going to turn out badly.

“Excuse me, Vimount.” Casor said. The bearded man almost too gladly stopped talking.

Casor got up and made his way to Airen, arriving just as the elf began to cast a spell at the chandelier. He dispelled the oncoming magic, drained the boy’s mana, than put him to sleep, catching him and his staff as he fell backwards. The girls around gasped at his sudden appearance.

“I apologize. It seems that my friend here has had too much to drink. Do you know where his quarters are?”

The servant that brought Airen’s staff nodded and left, returning with a pair of large guards. They picked up and carried the sleeping elf out of the hall, with Casor forlornly thinking of his own young self. With a sigh, Casor returned to his seat, only to find that another women had taken it. She stood up and greeted him warmly, requesting him to take a seat near her. Both he and the Vimount agreed wholeheartedly, and Casor followed the women a few chairs down the noisy hall.

“Avanna, mysticus Amell. I am Lady Marielle, the Campaigner of the Ignagyris. I would like to make an acquaintance with you.” She said as she pulled out a chair for him. She was a women in her mid-fifties, dark-skinned with braided hair, she was old-beautiful. He took the seat with a nod of thank-you.

“I am afraid that I will have difficulty talking to you, for the others dislike our meeting. However, I will remain stubborn.” She sat down next to him. A number of servants gathered around them, all wearing same khaki sash around their neck. Casor looked around nervously, but the Campaigner smiled. “They can be trusted, for they are my people.”

“You don’t talk like others.” Casor asked, not being sure where to start.

“Yes. I make a conscious decision to avoid speaking in High Southern, for it does not represent the way most people speak.” A servant with the khaki sash brought his cup and his plate. Casor thanked him and poison-checked again, quickly becoming aware of Lady’s scrutinizing gaze.

“I apologize. It is an old habit.” He said. The Lady laughed softly.

“It is wise, mysticus. I do not condemn you… I will get straight to my point; please forgive me if I am being rude.” Casor shook his head. “Your presence here in Tevinatarium comes at a ripe time for all parties in the West, for a civil war is brewing between my city and the Empire. We have historically remained independent, but… the recent events have forced the Empire to demand more from our Coalition… Am I confusing you?”

Casor nodded, thought briefly then shook his head, completely failing to hide his confusion and bringing out another chuckle from the Lady.

“I know but a little about the politics here. I do have a background knowledge of the situation. Your salt fields are ruined, yes? By the dam break?” He replied.

“It is great that you are at least informed. I presume Lentomari Irimae has made a good acquaintance with you. Yes, it is our salt fields, ruined by the failure in our water dam. The Empire demands more each day, but our recovery efforts have been delayed, for rebuilding the dam has remained a higher priority. We have barely enough to keep our people alive, and our salt reserves are showing its bottom.” The Lady sighed, absentmindedly poking at the small pile of salt in front of her in a very un-ladylike manner.

“So Tevinatarium is going to try to invade you for salt.”

“Yes.”

For the less informed, this may sound like a trivial, and almost laughable matter – but Casor knew the strategic importance of salt. A city deprived of salt for more than a year would spell death to its citizens. It was worse than an abomination outbreak. And the salt crisis of Vol Urthemiel had begun almost an year and a half ago… Tevinatarium’s invasion seemed inevitable.

The Hero and the Lady sat in silence, nibbling away at their food and listening to music. Despite their acute awareness of time (and lack thereof), it took a long, extended minute before Casor spoke again.

“Do you wish me to help you in some way?”

The Lady’s eyes opened wide, and she quickly shook her head.

“No, no. I simply wish to ask you to remain abstained in who you support. Your very presence here in the capital strengthens the Archon’s case, and I am afraid that he will manipulate it to his advantage. Please, give your time before you show support for anyone; even me.”

Now it was Casor’s turn to have wide eyes. What she just said was close to mutiny, and definitely not words from some stupid politician. She just asked him to be careful – even against herself! He didn’t know if this was advanced manipulation or long-term strategy, but for now, he decided to trust this women.

Still, he reminded himself that trust was dangerous – for both sides.

…

Casor stared out his bedroom’s window, looking out onto the Tevinatarium’s dawn. It was a sight worthy of appreciation – the young sunlight danced across the hills and rooftops, bathing them in a hue of bright red and highlighting the occasional towers that poked its head above the houses. Long shadows hid the winding footpaths in the dark, still asleep after the previous night’s drizzle. The river flowed lazily past the castle, cutting through the city and out to the edge of the fields, curving out of sight. It carried early risers and dawn breakers on their trading paths, the ships’ furls full with the morning gust. Smell of fresh pine emanated from the ground, clearing his mind of his fourth nightmare in five days.

Casor smiled humorlessly at the irony. The dead wouldn’t stop talking to him, while the living remained silent. Was it not the other way around?

It had already a week since he had entered the city of Tevinatarium. A week of nightmares and day-time idiocy. Despite the countless invitations to dinners and a large ceremonial parties not unlike first day’s “feast”, the Archon himself had artfully dodged Casor’s questions with regards to the demon-hunting, whilst (at least, Casor suspected) directing various members of the Talon house to make an acquaintance with him, all the while placing spies next to him to observe his every move. He knew that a spy was standing outside his door at this very moment, posing as a ready butler with towel and breakfast. He and Sigrun rarely had time to speak, and when they did, they were near at least one other stranger. He had no real reason to talk to Airen, Tal remained in distant shadows (though always within sight), and he had only caught fleeting glances of O’hana across the rooms, looking passively withdrawn in her opulent Tevinter dress.

He did not like this social claustrophobia. Not one bit.

Casor kicked off his blankets, regretfully arranged them back onto the bed (“Casor, did you tidy your bed?” “But Wynne, I’m going to-” “No buts!” “However Wynne, I-” “Amell!” “Yes, muuuuum.”), and picked up the Seer’s letter from the bedside table that had arrived two days ago; much too late due to the messenger’s mistake. Casor read it again just to be sure he had the dates correct.

_To the God-Slayer. Spirits have informed me of the events in Dahlasanor’telban. I await Truthfinder’s letter for the details. I must apologize for not revealing the corruption of Koscus earlier, for I had believed that he was already killed by the unknown artefact. The betrayal of the Mysterious was unforeseen, for the spirits too had refused to speak of him before. However, I recognize that excuse unfortunately does not fix the situation. I shall remain here in Etala and scour the Fade for any pieces of information regarding the Mysterious’ whereabouts. Meanwhile, please know that the small army that reside here will be yours to command if the need arises. I have asked another Seer to aid you. He shall be within Tevinatarium by the 3 rd of Cassus. Whilst you wait, I ask you seek alliances and make friends in high places of the West. Let us find our prey fast before the chaos erupts. May your gods be with you.  [a Seer crest was stamped at the bottom of the letter]_

Today was the 2nd of Cassus… another day of forced grins had awaited him. On a positive note, today was a Burning Day in the West, meaning a day of tournaments and hunting. He was (obviously) invited, and Casor hoped that he might be able to participate in the fighting and also avoid the night’s vigil. He folded the letter in half and replaced it onto the bedside table, extending his body into a lazy stretch across the bed with a loud yawn.

Just then, the butler knocked softly on the door.

“Come in!”

The man came in with a large dish of water and a towel. Casor watched as he quickly left the room, soon to return with his breakfast and the whetstone he has requested yesterday. There was something off about the whole situation, like the browning apple that tasted bitter despite its sweet fragrance. The man was at least fifty, with old, submissive eyes that never looked up. He had probably never had a chance to enjoy the luxuries that he himself had provided, possibly burdened by a family to feed. Sure, it was wrong for him to judge this man’s life, but his bent shoulders and work-worn knuckles aroused pity.

Casor was once again reminded of the reason why he hated the nobles, and the reason he had first picked up his weapon back at Flemeth’s hut – for the people like this very man.

“Thank you.”

The man lifted his head for a brief moment, gave him a weary smile with his eyes, and left again without a word. At that moment, Casor knew that this man was on his side. One by one, he was being accepted. It was a slow, hard progress. For now though, he was satisfied with one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Updated: Politics of Tevinatarium (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/11175205)


	12. First Confluence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A leader arises only at the harshest of times." - from History of Thedas: from Arlathan to Ferelden Rebellion

The massive oval was about an hour away from Itwing on a horse, which meant hour and twenty minutes of more head-smashing carriage rides. This time, Casor was prepared, putting up a barrier around his head to take the brunt of the blows. Though he was tired by the end of the ride, his head was gloriously free of bruises – a decent tradeoff by all standards.

When he and Sigrun jumped out of the carriage, they were still ten minutes’ walk away from the main arena: ten minutes’ walk through a massive crowd already roaring with excitement. The Burning Day festival was quite a sight – more so than Feastday back in Ferelden. Peddlers, hopefuls, youths, gamblers, spectators, veterans, and families – more than a hundred thousand of them (with a bit of exaggeration sprinkled) – gathered around the giant arena outside the main city specifically for festivals like this. Colorful banners, dazzling armor, humble but fitting coats; bursts of laughter, murmurs of excited chatting, far-off music, and groans of more carriages; the aroma of food, stink of horse feces, and the mixed smell of sweat, mud, and water; this place was the pictorial definition of a festival.

Casor had few things to do on this day – talk to Sigrun and Tal, find an ally, and declare his political position. He had ran out of patience, and knew that he could not stay as an idle guest any longer: the Ignagyris members had turned him into a political tool, like a ceremonial sword used only to garner attention. Now, he was going to remind them that all blades, even ornamental, can cut.

He was ushered by various guards and ‘diplomats’ out of the main street and into the viewing stands, colliding into huge surge of crowds also heading towards the arena. Casor took the opportunity of chaos to loosen himself from their watch, made his way to the edge of the crowd, and stepped into the fold of one of the tents. Five minutes later, Tal appeared next to him.

“I knew you would come. You’re creepy, you know that? Still, it’s good to see you.” Casor said over the din of the festival. Tal nodded.

“Sigrun is on her way.” Tal replied.

“Airen?”

“He is already seated on the stands, three rows behind and five seats left of the Archon.”

That boy! That stupid boy! Casor couldn’t blame him; he technically wasn’t part of his demon-hunting party. But still, it would have been nice to have had a chance to chat with Airen as well.

“How about O’hana?”

“I am uncertain.”

“Amell!”

Sigrun rammed into his chest, nearly knocking him down. He had to grab onto a tent pole, which subsequently collapsed the tent. Angry shouts came from within, followed by Sigrun’s apology and their quick escape into the nook of another tent further down the row.

“Calm down, you crazy women.” Casor laughed.

“Good to see you too.” Sigrun replied sarcastically. “Any news? It’s been difficult with so many people watching.”

“Yes, news. Another Seer is coming to Tevinatarium this Saturday, on the 5th. Did you know that Tal?”

She did.

“Creepier than the Stone.” Sigrun commented with a bit of a grin. Both of them were glad that Tal was watching their backs, despite the lack of privacy. Somehow, having her know everything was… comforting.

“She’s at least not dead like you. Anyhow, we wait for him. Before that, we need to get ourselves an ally. One of the Ignagyris members.” Casor continued.

“Lady Marielle.” Sigrun and Tal said simultaneously. They shared a surprised glances; Sigrun grinned while Tal turned her head back towards Casor.

“Good. We’re on the same page. I plan to enter the Combined Arms event, win it, and dedicate the victory to Urthemiel. Ally ourselves with the Lady. She gets political leverage – I hope. We, in return, get better access to information and perhaps support in hunting Sinnan. At the very least, we loosen ourselves from the Archon’s grasp. I don’t have an armor, but I think I can manage with magic. What do you think?”

“Significant.” Tal said.

“What?”

“A dedication of victory in a Provings match is significant. Lady Marielle will gain a noteworthy political advantage. She will become a dedicated ally to us.” Tal answered.

“Sounds like a plan, Amell. A timely one, too – the High Priests are voting soon as whether they should declare war against the Northern Coalition. Or so I heard. I was going to suggest that we ask help from the Crytin ambassadors who will arrive for that decision, but I guess your plan is better.” Sigrun added.

“Hmm… keep that in mind. Right, is there a way to communicate without them opening every one of our damned letters?” Casor had thought about this problem before – it seemed that the spies, though clumsy, could read the common writing (well, Common in Thedas). Tevene was out of question, and so was Qun (only Tal knew how to write in Qun. Only word that Casor knew in Qun was Parshaara – “enough!”).

“Do you still have Orlesian royals, Warden Amell?”

“What? I…” Where _did_ he put the damned thing?

“I have it.” Sigrun answered. “Here.” She held up his bag of coins.

“Sigrun, seriously. No more stealing, even for a joke!” Casor growled.

“What? You gave it to me for safekeeping!”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Parshaara! It does not matter.” Tal gave an uncharacteristic smile, scaring Sigrun and Casor into submission. “Warden Sigrun, divide those coins between the three of us. If you wish to talk, send those coins back to us. On the day we receive, we will meet near the rashvine growths in the Itwing gardens, one hour after midnight.”

“Good idea. If we send a coin back with it colored – you can do that easily with any wine or coal – then that means that the meeting is off, for whatever reason.” Sigrun added.

“Right then, I’ll see you both soon. Actually, we’ll use these coins even if we move to someplace else. The day we receive, we meet near the rashvine growths of the nearest garden. We’re meeting tomorrow night, okay?” When he received the nods of approval, he patted both women on the back and walked out, letting the crowd sweep him into chaos and towards the stands.

…

“Oh, hi! O’hana! Bad choice of words actually. Sorry, let’s try again. Are you alright?”

“I am well, Amell. It is a pleasure to see you too. May I ask, is it true that you have asked to participate in the Combined Arms?”

“Off course. It’s going to be fun.”

O’hana sat down next to him, her eyes wide with surprise. They were in the stands, sitting down to watch the Jousting event. The event was already drawing to a close, with the remaining fighters prepping for the final round. The cheers of the crowds was deafening, forcing them to lean close to hear each other without shouting. O’hana had spotted him at the beginning of the match, but it had took her all this time to make her way to him.

“Why?”

Casor opened his mouth to talk, but then became conscious of others around him (Ignagyris Arcane Master behind him and Treasurer to his left), so he bit into his apple instead. Although he was quite certain they couldn’t hear them, he didn’t want to risk it. He pulled out a few royals from his pocket as he chewed, pushing them into O’hana’s hands.

He swallowed before explaining. “Can’t talk now. Meet me tomorrow in the Itwing garden, one hour after midnight, near the rashvine growths. That means we meet on the 4th of Cassus, okay?”

“But-”

“I’m a mage, O’hana. There will be no problems.”

O’hana was wearing a ‘quieter’ set of Tevinter robes, but she seemed quite uncomfortable in them, exaggerated by the uneasy fidgeting of her shoulders. She had painted her face lightly and tied her hear into a bun, making her look older. This change in her appearance was partially the reason why Casor was not overjoyed with her appearance. Something just felt wrong.

“Very well, Amell. Trust I have in your decision.”

Her last word was cut off by the uproar of the crowd as the final round began.

Casor sat back to enjoy the show, admiring the fighters’ horsemanship and finishing his fifth apple. Casor didn’t know how to ride horses. In fact, none of the Grey Wardens did, because horses died too easily from Blight-sickness. It was amazing to see man and horse fighting together in a beautiful synergy, attuned to each other’s heartbeat, noticing each other’s needs and fears.

A sudden ‘oof’ spread across the crowd as one of the champions fell. Only three were left – a dwarf and two humans. However, just as they began to fight again, the fallen man’s horse reared up with the champion still on the ground.

Casor watched in horror as the horse’s hooves crashed down into the champion. A plume of dust, caused by the dramatically timed gust of winds, hindered their sight. An arena-wide silence fell as the dust settled… Two human horsemen burst out of the dust, still engaged in combat. The dwarf-

The dwarf was dismounted on the floor, holding the rein of both his and the other champion’s horse. The other champion stumbled to his feet, embarrassingly thanked the dwarf, and together left the arena.

“Who’s the dwarf?” Casor asked. He looked down at his hands, holding the remains of an apple that he crushed without noticing. He put it back into his apple bag.

“Apologies, Amell. Little I know of his origins, other than the knowledge of his name: Marrmor.” O’hana said.

The fight in the arena continued, but Casor’s attention was no longer on the dusty floor. He watched the horses’ heads poking above a sea of people. A few seconds later, it disappeared.

…

Casor knew drama.

Oh, he knew drama alright. That was the reason why he was on the ground, rolling away from the blows, pushing himself up with a slight twist of the body. The crowd cheered.

He hated the cheering. There they sat, comfortable, excited, while the fighters clashed, their honor and lives at stake. There they sat, egging the fighters on, insulting them for their mistakes, demanding for impossible. Of course, he could give them the ‘impossible’ and quite literally ‘smash the **_censored_** guy flat’, but there were kids watching, too. He didn’t want to scar them for life.

He was already in the semi-finals of the match. More accurately, there were only two pair of fighters left: He, another man, an elven women, and Marrmor. Fighting with an imbalanced sword borrowed from a guard and using only his barriers as armor, he had overdramatically took down opponent after opponent, becoming the crowd favorite very quickly. Apparently, the man he was fighting right now was the reigning champion, and deservedly so. However, this man was no match for his years of darkspawn experience – he could read is every move, every breath, and every thought: There came a lunge, followed by- yup, a lash. The man would turn around to try a shield bash- of course, and now he will roll into him with a pommel- yeah, you missed because I avoided you. Even without magic, he could probably take down this man within seconds.

But he didn’t. Instead, his eyes were focused on the dwarf. The dwarf was having a hard time against the elven women – probably a Guardian, judging by her adept use of her dual-spears. She lashed hard and fast, gaining advantage every second. However, the dwarf didn’t seemed to counterattack. He seemed to simply stand there, blocking blows and extending the fight. There was something funny abou-

Half a moment later, Casor was face-down on the ground and seeing stars; pretty, but unpleasant. It served him right for not paying attention. He swung his body around his arm, (much easier without his armor on), and kicked out the opponent’s legs. He caught the man around the waist as he fell, morphing his safe-fall into a deadly head-smash. The crowd screamed as the man fell unconsciously onto the floor. Casor bowed towards the Archon, still playing the tune that the crowd wanted.

Casor looked at Marrmor as the crowd burst into screams once more; sure enough, the dwarf had won. They exchanged a brief, piercing glance before returning to the backstages.

…

“Tal, I want to know everything about that dwarf. Everything.”

Tal nodded, and slipped out of the prep room. Around him buzzed various admirers and tournament officials, chirping in on how awesome that last fight was, and whether he was planning to use magic at all, or if he could really breathe fire, bla bla bla. The guard who had reluctantly lent him the greatsword was now looking very pleased with himself.

However, Casor paid no attention to them at all. His mind was all focused on Marrmor. It was said that a hero could recognize another – and here, he had recognized a hero. The man had that certain aura – the one where one could look and _know_ a great person. The confidence and deep-imbedded malice; eyes speaking of undecypherable thoughts, hands twitching at hidden ideas, body gracing towards grand schemes.

Whoever he was, this man was dangerous.

A loud horn signaled the end of the thirty minute rest. Casor picked up the greatsword, gobbled up the final apple, thanked the guardsmen once more for lending him a weapon (“Gratitude is mine to give, magister!”), and pushed his way through the crowd and towards the arena. Marrmor was already there, standing motionlessly in the center of the field. Casor walked up next to him, and they both held their head up as the announcer stood up. A jarring hush settled over the field as the announcer began speaking:

“So we have the two fighters, on the last match of the Burning Day Provings. On one side, we have Marrmor Valta, the dwarf from Crytin, fighting for the second time for the champion title. Fighting him is Casor Amell, the mage from the East after defeating the reigning champion, Alandrius. A worthy fight for a worthy day! Any words, Marrmor?”

“I fight for the ancestors. May my victory show the glory of all dwarves of the Sky and the Stone!” Marrmor replied.

“And Casor?”

Casor took a brief moment to clear his throat and wipe his sweating hands on his robes before replying, “I fight as Champion of Urthemiel!” The crowd erupted in a deafening roar. He looked pointedly at Lady Marielle, who looked both surprised and pleased in equal proportions. A further scan of the crowd revealed a comical scene; Archon looked as if he had been lobbed over the head, Sigrun had her thumbs up, O’hana was 100% stupefied, and Tal was nowhere to be found.

The announcer, after waiting for silence, continued on. “Very well, your victories will be recorded as victory of the Ancestors and Urthemiel, respectively. Take your positions…!”

Casor and Marrmor stepped away from each other, drawing out their weapons. They heard a massive horn blare, signaling the start of their fight.

“Who are you?” Casor asked as he began circling. He noted with delight that the dwarf also wielded a greatsword – much easier to fight against, and so much easier to make the fight appear fancy. He held it with his right hand wide out, supporting the blade with his left hand, across his body in a defensive position. Unorthodox.

“Marrmor, a Sky dwarf. You are?”

“Casor, mage of Thedas. Look, my friend. I am a mage, so-”

“We will have to put up a good show.”

Marrmor lunged at him, which he received head on. The two blades threw up sparks as they clashed. The dwarf was surprisingly strong, and almost succeeded in overwhelming his balance, but Casor held. Just.

“Interesting. Why are you-” They exchanged a series of quick blows, jarring each other’s arms before jumping back into circling distance.

“Why are you here?”

“To win.”

Marrmor lunged again. A powerful blow, evaded, a kick, countered, pommel strike, blocked, swing, slash, clang! Their swords were interlocked, each other’s blunted blades mere inches away from their necks.

“Watch your ribs.” Casor said. He pushed off and launched a stonefist at the dwarf’s side. Marrmor was flung back by the impact, and the crowd went wild. Casor and Marrmor were both breathing hard by the time they began circling each other again.

“That’s the Sky curse.”

“Well, I guess…”

They lunged at each other again, but just before impact, Marrmor twisted his blade around, aiming the weapon at Casor’s hands and sundering his sword from his grip. Casor dropped hard onto the ground and rolled away from the man’s ensuing swings (long ago, he heard Greagoir’s voice ringing through the Circle windows; “drop and roll, drop and roll”. Back then, it was merely an annoying background noise, but now he was grateful). Launching himself back to his feet, Casor found his hands clutching at the air, sorely lacking a weapon and suppressing the urge to summon Duty.

“I didn’t see that. You’re good.”

“Thank you.”

Marrmor charged into him, easily reading Casor’s miserable dodge and hitting him squarely across the chest. He managed to kick himself away, clutching his breasts and gasping for breath. The crowd was in a frenzy – the mage was being beaten!

Casor was irritated. Whilst it was true that this dwarf probably have had years more training than he, Casor had prided himself for his formidable swordplay. Though he knew the needed to accept defeat, it wasn’t easy. It was time to end this fight before things got too embarrassing.

“Thank you for the fight, Marrmor. Now…”

Casor heaved up the earth. It shook violently, knocking Marrmor off his feet. A quick succession of lightning strikes, fireballs, and ice blasts (all executed with extravagant fancifulness and reduced lethality) soon caused a maelstrom of destruction over the dirt arena. When the dust settled, Marrmor lay on the ground, with Casor standing calmly over him.

A few seconds of silence hung over the arena, soon followed by an uproar.

“Casor, the mage of the East, claims the title of the Mage-Champion!”

…

A dwarf and a human sat on a carriage alone, heading to Itwing Castle for the night’s vigil. The sun was already beginning to wane, giving out last bit of warmth and illuminating the pilgrims’ long path to the Templum.

“You should’ve seen the sundering, Amell.” Sigrun lectured.

“Well, yeah. But… teh, Yeah…” He tried, and failed, to give a proper excuse to his mistake. To hell, he was human – making a mistake was part of the job description.

“His grip was slightly twisted. Always expect a change of direction.” She droned.

“Easy to say when we’re sitting down. And besides, darkspawn rarely do that.” Casor mused, half ignoring her.

“You should still know.” Sigrun jabbed his ribs.

“Yes master.”

They sat in the dusk, half hidden in the shadows, listening to the periodic clop-clop-clop-clop as the horse pulled their ride into the castle. He searched his pockets and was disappointed to find them empty. No more apples.

“I’m going to sleep as soon as we go in. Don’t stop me.” Sigrun declared. She laid across the back seat, her head on his laps and arms folded over her chest.

“But-”

Suddenly, Sigrun sprang up to a sitting position, very nearly missing his nose: “They believe in the Old Gods, Amell! They’re worshipping the Blight!” She hissed in his ear, making sure that her whisper still had the impact of a shout.

Casor was shocked by her sudden outburst: After all, she had agreed to the plan this morning. “No, wait. You’re not-”

“And you supported them. Champion of Urthemiel! Urgh!”

“Hey Sigrun, I can explain-”

“They aren’t even gods! What are even gods?”

“Sigrun, listen! Their religion is _different_. Yes, they support the Old Gods, but it’s different from worshipping the Blight. Their belief of the Gods alone makes their Gods holy. You understand?”

“Still! Urthemiel! That’s the Archdemon you killed. _You_. _Killed._ How?”

Casor opened his mouth to argue, but he suddenly realized that was the 2nd of Cassus.

“Sigrun, it’s your period, right?”

“Yeah. Sod it. Sorry.”

“I’ll whip up a potion when we get back.”

Casor chuckled quietly as Sigrun boiled away silently beside him. At least he wasn’t a female mage – periods, plus the Blight-sickness, plus the magical nightmares... urgh! Surana was the worst when she had her periods. It was lucky that she never became a Warden. In fact, compared to her, Sigrun was having it easy.

He had to take their victories where he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CODEX UPDATED: Bits and Pieces (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/12263084)


	13. Alliance Maker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They say, keep your friends close, and keep your enemies closer. Then are the ones closest to me friends or enemies?" - Marrmor

Sod the campfires. Sod the night’s vigil. Sod tradition. Casor had a lot to think about. He wanted to sleep.

…

Casor’s eyes drooped shut. Shocked, he took in a big breath, inhaled too much incense, and suffered an acute case of temporary asphyxia, gagging silently on his little cushion. When he could breathe again, he froze the ground below him with a spell, hoping that the coldness would keep him awake.

He opened his eyes five minutes later, having fallen asleep on top of a giant slap of ice.

No good. He moved his eyeballs as best he could without moving his head, scanning across the vast hall that held the Vigil. In fact, it was the same hall they had the first feast; Hall of Festives – a name that made an ironic mockery to the glum ceremony that was being held for Maker-knows how long. They were all sitting on the floor (with tiny red cushions that did nothing to soften the hard stone), forming a hexagon around a large symbolic fire of the Great Plague. Incense and sacrifices burned within the makeshift fire pit, filling the room with smoke that ventilated out of unseen windows. Housing almost a hundred people, it would have been easy to fall asleep unnoticed had it not been for the fact that he was in the bloody front row, taking the spot of ‘guest of honor’.

In all honesty, he _could_ have fallen asleep – at least five, maybe six of the Ignagyris members (all sitting on the front row) had hung their heads in what could only be a comfortable sleeping position. However, the glaring eyes of the Archon which darted between him and the Campaigner kept him alert. For a while.

Usually, he did not like to sleep. Usually, he respected another culture’s tradition. Usually he could stay alert for hours on end. Today though, nothing sounded more inviting than an hour’s sleep (that was not entirely true – an hour’s sleep _with Leliana_ sounded better). He opened his eyes once more, having dozed off for a few more minutes. The ice had already melted from the heat of the fire…

Sod. It. All.

He stood up. As he did so, the doors of the hall flew open, revealing the sun that finally rose above the horizon. By some bizarre luck, he had perfectly timed his grand sitting-up-ance to the ending of the ceremony.

The hall was filled with mumbles of waking priests and sleepy guards as the crowd dispersed without a word. They all knew the ceremony was over. The new guards (old ones were clearly beyond ‘guarding’ anybody), looking supernaturally sharp and vigilant against the backdrop of semi-dead worshippers, led everyone to their respective rooms; all of whom crashed into their beds without an exception.

…

Andraste’s flaming nickleweasels! He was late! Late! For the first time in his thirty years of existence, he was _late_!

His mouth was sore from the furiously hurried scrubbing, smelling fresh thanks to the mint he chewed in an afterthought. His empty, grumbling stomach was ignored, and so was his urge to take a long, relaxing bath. Luckily, he didn’t smell – yesterday’s incense-fest made him smell like well-smoked pork. He did his best to comb his short hair and straighten his clothes, but they were stubbornly unkempt, as if knowing his panic.

He knew he looked like a lyrium-drunk apprentice when he entered the vestibule.

“Good afternoon, Hero of Ferelden. I…” The man at the stairwell let out a short chuckle at his sorry state before regaining his composure. “I am Seer Jacospi. Pervanti has asked me to join your cause, though he had no need to _see_ to that.”

“Good afternoon, Seer Jacospi. I do apologize – I have had a… rough night.”

“There is no need to apologize, my dear _knight_. I know what happened at _night_. It is lucky that you are late, for I, too, had arrived _right_ before you.”

Casor completely failed to hide his shock. “Did you just…?”

The Seer’s face almost split in half as he grinned from ear the ear. “I sincerely hope that I will be of great help to you.”

A pause. “Maker preserve me.”

The Seer was wearing the same clothes as Seer Pervanti’s, albeit without the overcoat and the hood. It matched rather well with his olive-dark skin. Jacospi was a man of average height and hair that was neither long nor short, rather lithe, and looked like an Antivan. His total-black eyes only served to add to that image.

An Antivan Seer who made puns. Exactly the addition he needed for his ragtag team of demon hunters.

Casor shook the Seer’s outstretched hand, stared wide-eyed at the man for a little longer, then returned to his grooming. No doubt the Archon or someone from the Ignagyris would enter any moment now, hoping to see this newcomer. He didn’t want to make himself the topic of fashion gossip.

The Seer had a deep but cheery voice when he continued, “I am, in fact, quite a big fan of you.”

“Oh?” Stupid bedhead. Argh! Stupid piece of hair! He flattened it carefully with his hand, hoping that the sweat on his palm would do the trick. His right hand did its best to straighten out the pockets of his pants.

“Your deeds on top of Fort Drakon was the only thing spirits talked about for months.”

A ghost of a smile spread across Casor’s face; one that encompassed longing, pride, happiness, as well as dread, trauma, and death. He had no fantasies of a hero, for he knew the gruesome truths of a war. He had seen them – and there was no other pronoun that could be used other than _‘them’_ … and he had a haunting feeling that he will see _‘them’_ again soon.

“Is that so? I thought all the blood magic had scared away the spirits.” Casor commented, his smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. He lifted his hand up from his hair. “How does it look?”

A snicker from the Seer, and Casor’s hand was back down onto his scalp.

“It is true. However, even the demons are sometimes impressed by great deed in history. They have told me that many _specters_ _spectated_ your actions. Thus, your story was told all over the world.”

“I can imagine that happening, actually.” Casor straightened his collars and his belt. He now was bordering a ‘presentable’ look. He lifted his hand from his hair once more, this time with a nod of approval from the Seer.

“Our journey will be difficult. However, I do believe that you are taking steps in the right direction.”

The main door to the vestibule opened, and the Archon entered, flanked by four armed guards. Casor gave a short bow, and moved aside to let them talk, eyes scanning the guardsmen’s armor. They were of combat quality – not like the ceremonial armors they had worn a few days ago. The Archon was obviously expecting trouble.

Perhaps it had been a rash move to ally himself with the Campaigner? Only time would tell.

“Good afternoon, Prantius Kerashaw, the Archon of Tevinter.” the Seer ‘greeted’ the Archon

“A welcome, Seer Brutus Jacospi, to Itwing Castle. Of what business do you hail in the City of Tevinter?” the Archon replied almost mechanically. There was something between them – an air of mild animosity – which made an invisible line of tension between the two men’s eyes. It was bizarre that they had known each other’s first names, yet they refused to show any sign of hospitality.

“I come to aid the Hero of Ferelden in his quest to hunt a demon. I am to assist him in whatever way possible, for the situation is far beyond trivial political arguments.”

Here, both Casor and the Archon’s faces tensed. If Casor had been rash, the Seer was downright outrageous. At least he had still not gone against the Archon directly. In fact, as far as politics were concerned, it appeared as though he was doing his best to support Ignagyris. Despite the situation, Casor’s face shifted into a suppressed grin, having found another member of hate-politics-club.

“I see…” The Archon’s reply was almost a whisper, a weighty death threat.

The vestibule’s door swung forward again, this time opening the way for the Campaigner. She walked in with a grace of a swan, winged by guards in khaki clothing. The Archon broke his glare against the Seer and nodded at her arrival.

“Greetings, Archon Kerashaw. Greetings, Seer Jacospi.” After lifting her head from her bow, she turned to Casor for a second bow. “Greetings, mysticus Amell.”

Casor replied with a bow as well. These Tevinter people certainly seemed to like bowing.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Campaigner Marielle.”

“Thus, am I to understand that you hold no purpose in your visit?” The Archon said, dumping water over the pleasantries. The Seer and the Archon reestablished their thorny connection.

“All I ask is a place of respite whilst I discuss future actions with the Hero.”

The two man faced each other, staring silently and arguing with their eyes. Seer had a slight advantage in the staring contest (those black eyes were unsettling), but the Archon did have his guards, too.

“Then I shall leave you. The servants shall find you a room. May Toth light your path.” The Archon turned on his heels and left. The Seer stared intensely at the doors through which the Archon had disappeared to.

“Excuse us, Seer Jacospi… may I have a word with mysticus Amell?” the Campaigner spoke.

Wait, what? Why did she want to talk to _him_?

The Seer seemed to share his confusion, but he walked towards a servant after a smile, who held out a guiding arm expectantly towards a side door.

“Sorry, Lady, give me a second.” Casor said before hurrying to the Seer. He caught the man and handed him two Orlesian royals. The Seer seemed to recognize their purpose, winked, and placed them in the folds of his robes. Casor returned to the Campaigner as the Seer left the room.

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Please, walk with me. Allow me to lead you to a more pleasant location.”

The pair of them began traversing the castle proper, first through the Grand Hall of stone and lively dragon tapestries, past the permanently-cool corridors dotted by burnt-out torches, out into wooden walkway doused in sunlight, through the green gardens flashing their polished beauty, and back into another building through larger-than-necessary doorway. It was a pleasant sight, one that Casor felt should be accompanied by trumpets and drums. The Tevinter architecture took on its own snaking path through history, unrestricted from its normal duties of defense and magical protection. Any well-travelled man would feel both at home and at his toes in this castle, the wooden beams and stone carvings each breathing in new flair into the sight. It had occurred to him that Casor haven’t had time to look around the castle itself, and probably never will. The beauty it accumulated over hundreds of years will remain unknown to him.

After about ten minutes of walking, the Campaigner finally him to a rather homely parlor which invited trivial chit-chat rather than discussions of worldly importance. Following the Campaigner’s guiding hand, he plonked himself down unto a well-cushioned armchair, feeling tempted to take a good nap.

“This place is rather nice.” Casor commented, thanking the servant who handed him a cup of tea and a tiny purple cake. His stomach, seeing food, began to moan like an undead.

“Thank you, mysticus Amell. I hope it is not too uncomfortable.” the Lady said, gracefully taking the plush seat opposite to him.

“Of course not, m’Lady.” Casor gave into his desires, taking up the fork and taking a bite off the cake. It filled his mouth with sticky-sweet taste, forcing him to take time to clean his mouth with his tongue. He noted bemusedly that this cake would be a great way to shut up the guests.

“I would first like to extend a congratulations on your delightful victory yesterday. This year’s Burning Day Provings has been quite unlike any other. Your participation was well appreciated by many spectators.” Casor managed a fumbled thank you before the Lady continued. “I would also like to thank you for your dedication of victory to Urthemiel. It has been, and will be, a great help to by position.”

Casor swallowed the sticky cake. “May I ask exactly why that is the case?”

The Campaigner took a sip of unidentifiable flower tea. “A victory in the Provings could mean many things. Spiritually, some may believe that Urthemiel has taken steps to ensure your victory to show that She is, at least temporarily, greater than other Gods. Politically, it means that supporters of no other Gods gained influence. Practically, it means that a champion fighter supports Urthemiel and her prophet.” the lady replied with a smile.

Casor could do nothing but to nod, as his mouth was glued shut again by the cake. Still, it tasted good. Blueberry, right? He liked blueberries (with guilt, he noted that he liked food in general).

“Your action may help my people greatly, though I am uncertain as whether a civil war is averted. Regardless, I am grateful. Though I cannot make any promises, my heart wishes to help your cause. Which brings me to my question as to what your cause truly is. You have not spoken about it since your entrance in the city. Perhaps I would not be able to fathom your grand plans?” the Campaigner joked. She was doing her best to sound earnest and impartial at the same time; asking the question in a manner that both sides could dismiss as a joke, making a path out of the conversation if Casor needed it. He didn’t take the path out and marched headfirst into the conversation.

“I wish my plans are indeed ‘grand’, but they are not… I will do my best to explain, my Lady. I have come from Thedas to hunt down a demon, previously under the alias of Sinnan. Unfortunately, a series of events at DaTel – sorry, Dahlasanor’telban – led to that demon breaking free, along with an artefact with unfathomable power. Sinnan is capable of shapeshifting, and he is an ancient creature of darkest deeds. Thus, I may require a large search force to aid in tracking and killing the demon. I hope to find him as soon as possible.” _and cure the Taint that is killing me_ Casor added in his head.

“I see… yet, even if you were to be able to gain support from every noble in the world, how would you be able to track down a singular shapeshifting being?” the Lady asked again, her eyes shining with childish curiosity. Casor could only smile as his tongues worked furiously to take off all the cake from the teeth. “Is there some arcane ability that you possess that I can only imagine?” she added.

Casor smiled even wider, and finally managed to get rid of the cake. “Unfortunately, yes. Or fortunately, I guess. Depends on how you see magic, my Lady.” he replied, “it is an obscure branch of magic that no mage in the world, whether here or in Thedas, truly understands. I am afraid I cannot explain it to you myself, but this magic does allow me to track Sinnan to a rough geographical estimate.”

The Lady seemed to be slightly disappointed by the response, but sat back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “I see… Very well, mysticus Amell. I will bid you the best of luck then. Please, if you _do_ need any help, I will do what I can to give it to you. Now, I must inform you to send your messengers to Vol Urthemiel, for I must return to my city soon.” the Campaigner held up a hand, and a servant rushed in with a khaki envelope. “Please send this envelope to Red August Castle if you wish to speak to me. I will be in the direct line of contact for you.”

Casor took the envelope and pocketed it. Then, remembering something, he pulled out a massive bag of coins that he had won from the Provings from his inside pockets. Though he had set aside a sizable portion for later use, there was simply too much coin to carry around. He didn’t need every damned bandit in the West to come after him – that would be too bothersome. So, he gave it to the Lady.

“Please, accept it, and use it to restore your city. I know it isn’t much, but it is all I have now.” Casor said, and he pushed the bag into Lady Marielle’s laps.

“I… thank you, mysticus.”

Sure, that bag of coin was _tiny_ compared to how much a city would need to restore its salt supply, but its importance lay in the gesture. The two shared a smile, hopeful that they had both found an ally in this bladed world that they could truly trust.

Again, though, trust was a dangerous thing.

…

The blood stains. Even on metal, it stains. Once, it flowed through the veins of a living being. Gave life. Gave hope. Gave power. It was pure. It was good. Opening a wound; forcing out the blood; changing it; tainting it; it is an act of evil. That is why blood stains.

So this blood does not stain.

It merely leaves a mark to be scratched out. A small speck on his knife to forgot. Destroy. Casor knew.

The blade flew across the whetstone. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down… He lifted the small dagger up, saw the glint of red, and continued to sharpen the weapon. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. Check, no good. He poured water over the whetstone to see if that helped. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. Check again. It must not be an oilstone, damn it. A wipe with his sleeve, and up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down.

Meanwhile, the crystal heart glowed angrily in front of him, trapped in its glass cage. Even the briefest glance was enough to tell that the crystals had grown further. It radiated with malicious heat, dripping with blood, alive without a body. The knife that Casor sharped was ruined by this ghastly thing.

He checked the blade once more, dropping a single strand of his hair onto it. The blade cut cleanly through. A nod and a grimace, his hand reached for a pair of gauntlets, placed them over his hands, and opened the glass cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Updated: Notable Groups (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/12401759)


	14. Demonic Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not sure what's worse; the demon's deals, or deals of demonic nature." - a note by an unknown mage, found in Kinloch Hold during the Fifth Blight.

“The Sinnan’s moving.” Casor whispered furiously, crouching down to fit his head under the foliage. Though the night was dark, the two moons illuminated the chilly garden enough to identify a shadow.

“Really? How do you know?” Sigrun replied, herself standing up without the fear of being seen. Benefits of midgets.

“The lyrium heart we hacked off? It’s pulsating, Sigrun. Like the Taint. I can _hear_ him.” he replied.

“What can you hear?” Jacospi asked with an expression that was a mix between surprise and bemusement, his eyebrows almost touching. There was no guilt in his expression, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was an hour late.

“How much information did you gather?” Tal asked on top of the Seer. Being three inches taller than him, she was also crouching. Thank the Maker her horns were sawn off.

Casor thought his words through before beginning, “I-”

“Shhh!” O’hana had her finger up to her lips – a universal sign of silence.

Sigrun moved to the edge of the rashvine plantation (which, seemly neglected, was fast growing into an infestation) to strain her ears. Casor breathed through his mouth to stop any unintentional noise. After fifteen breaths, Sigrun gave a thumbs-up and returned.

“Nothing special. Just a passing watchmen. Gosh, he sucks at his job. If he was a Grey Warden, I would’ve skinned him.” said Sigrun. Casor could actually imagine Sigrun doing that. Probably laughing. With lightning strikes in the distance. Yeah, he could definitely imagine Sigrun doing that.

“Right. Anyway. I can sort of feel is presence… I’m not certain, but I _think_ I can feel his presence whenever he interacts with the Orb. I think he’s trying to unlock its power.” Casor replied. For a moment, he felt the Calling in his veins, a mystical heat that poisoned his muscles. Two deep breaths later, his blood cooled again. Casor continued, “I can’t actually gather much information… the Taint remains undecipherable. But I can sort of tell where the Orb is.”

“Where?” all four of his companions asked.

“North. Not too far – most likely Casatium.”

O’hana seemed to be taken aback by the news, and she actually held up her hand like a seven-year-old girl. Casor, hoping that the shadows hid his smirk, nodded. “Are you sure? Fort Casatium?” she asked. Something about the way she asked sent a whiff of fear into Casor’s mind.

“Yes, why?”

“Casatium is currently infested by demons.” Seer answered.

“Pardon?” asked O’hana. “Wait, what?” Casor asked simultaneously, accidently raising his voice. The group fell into hurried silence, waiting with bated breath, fearing that someone may have overheard them. Sigrun jabbed him harshly in the ribs.

Casor snickered when he realized they were acting like troublesome seven-year-olds. Sigrun punched him.

“Casatium is currently infested by demons.” Seer repeated after extra-long silence.

“Ugh. _Demons_.” Sigrun groaned.

“Hell.” echoed Casor.

“How did you know?” O’hana asked before letting out an embarrassed “oh…” She had answered her own question in her head, but the Seer continued anyway.

“The last messenger out of Casatium carried with him the spirit of Purpose. He has informed me that Casatium was occupied by a blood mage. Judging by the lack of spirits willing to visit it again, it sounds likely that the demons have overrun the Fort.”

“It has been a month.” Tal said. Then, after scanning the confused faces of her companions, added annoyedly, “since Casatium was lost.”

They sat still, thinking through the new pieces of information and soon coming to the same conclusion; “We’re heading to Casatium.”

…

A small party of travelers set out from the Castle’s gates, walking as the sun cast a long shadow against the dawn sky. It was a curious group – a tall soldier clad in glistening griffon armor, a dwarven soldier with a pair of axes, a youthful elf with glass-tipped staff, a hornless Qunari with cloaked daggers, a bowwomen with an iron recurve, and a weaponless companion. They, after receiving a grand yet heartless farewell from the Archon, set off on foot towards Fort Casatium. Though delayed at the passing market, they soon left the city proper and marched north and into the wide green fields beyond.

Their progress was swift, though hindered by the Seer and Airen’s weak legs. Amell failed to hide his irritation, but Tal fixed the problem by buying two donkeys and a cart. Sigrun commented on how they could probably pass as traveling circus, a remark secretly agreed by O’hana. Tal asked why they didn’t all just hire horses, to which Casor embarrassingly admitted that he couldn’t ride.

At Casor’s insistence, they bivouacked near the roadside, even though they could have stayed a night at a nearby inn. With the help from Tal, he silenced the whining elven mage and went to bed, waking up two hours into the midnight for his watch. Sigrun chirped like an excited bird as she woke him up in the middle of the night.

“Crazy dwarf.” He murmured as he settled down onto a rock, watching Sigrun fall asleep in three seconds. With a disgruntled snort, he rekindled the campfire and wrapped himself with more blankets. In his hand was a book with a carved wooden cover. Both moons were up tonight, the smaller Satina currently hiding behind a set of thick clouds. It was going to rain tomorrow. There was moisture in the winds that blew from the south, and warmth in the heated earth.

He glanced at the cluster of tarps that was their campsite, feeling intense nostalgia to the same scene less than a decade ago. Back then, he had a staff, a bagful of youth, and steadily breaking illusion of reality. Now, he had an armor, a badge of heavy title, and an overwhelming sense of longing. Three things remained the same though; a sense of duty, an impossible-sounding task, and the will to survive.

The will to survive.

He opened his book.

“I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward. In darkness enveloped.” He began to chant, repeating the familiar rhythm, his hand curled uncomfortably underneath the crest of flaming sun. In his right hand, free of the Canticles, held a single teardrop necklace of gold.

…

Casor half-dragged Airen out of the roofed donkey cart and towards the village, absolutely ignoring his complaints about having to visit a ‘despicable, uncivilized, and filthy’ town. They were soon drenched wet from the downpour of rain despite the makeshift umbrella, quickly trudging through the brown mud and the smell of water. Most of others had already gone into town for resupplying and (in Sigrun’s case) sightseeing, except for the Seer, who slept noisily in the cart. According to Tal, Jacospi was the least ‘Seer’ Seer she knew, and Casor understood exactly what she meant.

“Why do I have to go?” Airen whined.

“Because I need to teach you something.”

He led the young mage to a run-down part of the town, and further into the shanty households, finally pushing him into a pub he had seen earlier. Though old and on the verge of collapse, the bar was filled with people. As they stepped through the door, an eruption of sound drowned out the patter of the rain, the heat from the bar pushing out the chill of their wet clothes. The room smelled strongly of alcohol and sweat, with a tinge of cheap perfume. The older mage twitched his fingers unconsciously, sensing a shift in his mana.

“What do you want?” asked Airen. Though he was trying to sound disgruntled, there was an obvious tone of interest in his voice.

They sat down on the table, waiting to be served. He eyed the elf carefully, his glare piercing through the boy’s arrogant expression. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, threatening voice. “You are the youngest in our group. You haven’t seen blood, nor have you seen the dark side of this world. Also, you are a mage yet to know blood magic. If you are planning to stick with me any longer, _you’ve got to learn_. So-”

A waitress saw them and began to wade her way through the crowd. The elven mage drew in a sharp breath as she approached. She had beautiful brown hair that was rolled into a loose bun, accenting her small round face. Small nose and sensually red lips both cooperated into a perfect smile. Large, exotically purple eyes danced as she waved her ‘very-well-proportioned’ body. Her steps were soft, and almost graceful amidst the chaos of the pub.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” She said. Her voice melted down their ears and tickled their insides. No normal man could possibly sit there without feeling warm and uncomfortably fuzzy. Luckily, Casor was not a normal man. Unluckily, Airen was.

“A..bab..baa” Airen stammered.

“Two grilled pork, a hot corn stew, the most expensive ale you have, and a large mug of warm beer, thank you.” Casor cut across. His eyes were concentrating hard on the mage boy – almost squinting in displeasure.

“I will be right back.” She said with a wink.

Airen’s neck twisted to impossible angles as he followed her across the pub. He stood up, but Casor kicked him back into his seat.

“What? You must be very good with… tell me how to-”

“The only thing I will tell you today is magic and how to fight demons.” Casor replied coldly. Airen went red, clamping his jaws and writhing his fingers together. Casor sighed in mild annoyance. “Listen to me. You have to learn to fight against temptation. You _have to know_ how to kill. Do you understand?”

The girl was back immediately with a large bowl of stew and a bottle of ale, and ran to their table. “Here’s your stew- oops! I’m so sorry sir!” Casor grimaced as the stew dripped down his hair and spread stickily across his clothes. She pulled out a handtowel from her chest pocket and began to wipe the stew off, her long fingers travelling down his body. She leaned in, and Casor could smell her sweet breath, and feel her breasts brushing against the back of his hands.

“There is no need. I am fine.” Casor replied. His glare were trained against the elf, whose eyes were definitely glancing at the most inappropriate places.

“I’m so sorry sir.” She continued to wipe his face. Most of the stew was gone, but her lips were only an inch away from his own. He lifted his hand to shoo her away.

“May I have a new stew?” Casor asked.

“Certainly! Sorry again.” She left the table in a hurry.

Casor looked over at Airen, whose puffed up cheeks so obviously expressed his jealousy.

“Lesson number one. Be vigilant, always.” Casor took the bottle of ale and opened it.

Airen wasn’t listening. He kicked him hard in the shin, then turned a blind eye to his pained yelps.

“Jealous, are you?” Casor asked. His brown eyes hardened, darkening like bark of a dead tree. The elf froze a little, but he continued on whining and rubbing his legs.

“What was that for? I’m not jeal-”

“Good. Because that women is a desire demon.”

Airen’s eyes bulged out as if on springs. He stopped massaging his leg and gripped onto his staff.

“How… how do you know?” His voice wavered in shock and disbelief.

“I may be horrifically wrong, but I am quite certain that she’s a demon.” He very much liked the way Airen went for his staff. That sort of unconscious self-defense was what he was looking for. “Desire demons have resistance to fire and cold. Electric shocks is the way to go, but spirit damage is better. You have to slow it down quickly before it has the chance to use its spells. Paralysis, or stun. Most importantly, you have to _see_ , and _never fall into its temptations_.” Casor replied calmly, sniffing the ale. Satisfied, he drank a little sip, poison checked, then drank a gulp. He laid back on the wooden pew and watched the elven boy transition through his emotions – shock, disbelief, anger, then fear. His teeth clamped down onto his bottom lips. They both glanced down at the hand towel the waitress had used.

It was soaked red with blood.

The ‘busy’ pub was desolate and quiet. Its guests growled in demonic rumble.

“You have one shot at this. Keep your wits about you, and know that _everything_ is your enemy.”

Before the last word left Casor’s mouth, the desire demon lunged at them.

…

The bar became a shambled battlefield. Men and women, under the enchantment of the demon’s spells, attacked the pair of mages with whatever cutlery they had, though they were easily stopped by the older mage’s mass paralysis. The demon received a fist to its face, but instead of continuing, Casor slipped into the Shroud, letting Airen take over. He drank another gulp of the ale.

The elf jumped onto the table, giving himself the meagre height advantage it could provide. The demon hissed, but it could not approach him due to the cascade of electrical sparks from the glass-tipped staff.

“Slow it down!” Casor yelled, still watching the fight from his seat.

Airen attempted a freezing spell, which misfired and changed into a fireball. When the fire cleared, the demon had disappeared. Panicking, Airen began to send random sparks across the bar.

“Stop! It’s a Misdirection spell! Focus on your barriers until- TO YOUR RIGHT”

Though hasty, the swing of the staff connected with the demon’s head, sending it crashing into the opposite table. As it stumbled back up, it began to scream. A head-splitting pain bloomed from the back of their minds, spreading icily down the spine.

“Stay AWAKE. Resist it. Airen!”

The elf perked up his head, then cast the first successful lightning against the demon. It stumbled- almost as if in pain, then-

“Move! That blast will freeze you solid!” Casor barked. He was now out of his Shroud, though still sitting casually at the table. He drank another gulp from the ale while Airen lunged across to the bar floor. He stumbled onto the dance floor, adjusting the grip on his staff and furiously chewing on his lower lips.

Desire, after a glance at Casor, moved to the elf, charging up for another spell. Airen didn’t need a warning, and managed to land a second successful lightning. He dodged the incoming fire, and threw another spell at it.

The purple creature faltered, then held up its hands.

“Oh, very well… You have beaten me, mage… Say, allow me to make a _suggestion_ , for I do not wish to die, and you do not need to kill me.” it said in an impossibly smooth voice. Airen’s face split into a grin, and he lowered his staff.

“What is it?” he asked. Casor’s face tensed. He stood up, drank the last of the ale and began to move to the pair.

“I am a spirit of _desire_. I can fill your deepest wishes, whether it be lust, power, or gold… and you have many that I can fulfill… Name one, and I shall make it true…”

“Hmm…” Airen, though not loosening his grip on the staff, had clearly dropped his guard. Casor began to stride towards the elf, Duty materializing in his hand.

“All I ask in return is to let me go…”

With an annoyed grunt, Casor threw the ale bottle at Airen. The elf dodged in time, though hissing in anger. “What are you-”

The glass smashed into the demon behind Airen, exploding with magical fire – not quite killing it, but crippling its power severely. The fake Desire demon (one that had been seducing Airen) vanished, leaving behind a very angry creature, screeching with panic.

“I said _keep fucking vigilant_.” Casor whispered. A blisteringly fast combinations of lightning, entropy, and spirit explosions crashed onto the reeling creature. A swing of the battlestaff, and the demon died, its body lifting up before dropping lifelessly onto the ground. As if on que, the paralyzed men and women also fell unconscious.

“How… what…” stammered Airen, his face reflecting his distraught of trickery. His bottom lips were bleeding. Casor kicked the carcass, then deliberately stepped onto its tail.

“It’s a demon. You _never_ make deals with a demon. _Never_.” his voice remained coarse yet calm “You hadn’t actually beat the demon. They are yet beyond your capacity. It tricked you. Lesson number one – keep vigilant. Always.”

Just then, a knock came from the door, and Jacospi walked in. He let out an impressed whistle at the scene and picked his way to the two mages.

“Quite a bar fight, wasn’t it? I am sorry that I didn’t arrive early for the drinking binge!” he exclaimed.

“Your information was perfect, Seer. Thank you. And yes, you did miss a very good ale.”

The Seer sighed, “It’s a pity. It appears that the demons are _ale-ing_ you.”

Casor scoffed and bent down at the disintegrating corpse, picking up an already-hardened demonic ichor. Airen looked bewilderedly between the two.

“If Desire could wander so far from the fort, there’s something _horrific_ going on in Casatium. We’ve got to get there fast.” he crumbled the darkened blood with his forefinger. “And I’m going to kill that bastard.”

“You _knew_ that there was a demon here?” Airen asked. He sounded hurt, but Casor did not soften. He turned slowly to the young mage, scanning him, piercing him and forcing him to look down.

“Yes. The same way I know I am running headlong into other demons.”

Neither of them spoke, the rain filling the background noise with muffled sound of a waterfall.

“Are you prepared to learn?”

Airen opened his mouth to speak, but Casor held up his hand.

“Before you answer, consider the consequences. A no means that you get to go home. You will stop hearing the tune of battle. No longer dance to the song of blades. Most likely you will have a quiet, silent life, one where you will learn to play your own tune much later. You will not partake in tavern songs for years to come, but you may play a unique song beautiful in its own right.” he paused. “A yes, means that you get to stay with me. I teach you the steps to follow the waltz of war. Death will be your dance partner, demons will be your musicians. The song will never end, even if you think it has – it will continue to haunt your mind, cripple your body, and wear down your soul. And, when you finish, no other person in the world will ever remember your part.” he pointed at the place where Desire used to be. “I am giving you an option, much like that demon. But neither of my options are sweat. The only difference is the tune you decide to move to. So, what do you say?”

A thunder struck far off in the distance.

Airen still didn’t answer. Then,

“I want to dance to the tune of battle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Updated: Diary found in Casatium (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/12735233)


	15. Shadow of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "O Zazikel, bringer of destruction. We kneel entranced by the beauty of chaos and annihilation. We await the perfect emptiness in the end, the barren fields after the flood." - Rhyme 19, Song of Extiction, Verses of Zazikel

If the Redcliffe Castle and Weisshaupt Fortress had an overgrown super-baby, it would be Casatium. This place was the definition of the word “citadel” with its towering grey walls, unbelievably complex fortifications, and series of siege weapons equipment into the ramparts. Each bend in the bastion was covered by large towers, also interlaced with heavy weapons at every level. Without any visible incline as a roof, all the buildings in the fortress looked like the Rook chess piece – a design that answered to no culture but its own. Flanked by a river, the fort seemed to clamber onto the hill, curling onto the dirt like a giant stone turtle. Even the West wall, torn down and covered in scaffolding, looked like the maw of a jagged-toothed animal.

However, no-one in the party could appreciate its beauty and grandeur through the thunderstorm that enveloped the sky. In fact, they could hardly even see the walls.

“Sigrun! Change your armor!” Amell shouted through the rain, himself packing his griffon plate armor into his bag. The chest piece didn’t fit, so he hung it over the top like an oversized bear-belly. He paused with his boots – grimly, wet, and definitely not clean enough to be inside a bag – and finally decided to set them aside instead of washing them. He picked up the Warden-Commander’s badge and pinned it to his robes, shivering as the wet cloth stuck to his cold skin. “Every sodding thing is wet.” he mumbled, fighting against the wind to put on the overcoat. Sigrun entered the ‘shelter’ of the barn, dripping wet.

“Remind me to buy a fire rune next time.” she said. He helped her out of her armor.

“Buy a fire rune next time.” he replied as he pulled the metal chunk off her head. She unfolded the wet leather armor from her bag with an annoyed grunt.

“Bee. Danks gommander.” she said sarcastically, her voice mumbled by the mass of wet cloth that he flung over her face. A lightning tore across the sky, making their hairs stand on the end.

“Byda- fwah… By the Stone that was a big one!” she finally managed to find the hole and slip her head through, followed soon by her hands. After quickly packing her bags, she picked up a bow and quiver full of arrows.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not crazy enough to take massive chunks of metal out there. I’m going to use this. No metal bits.” she said, stringing the bow with considerable effort. “Exceeeeeeeeeept, ah! There. Done. Except for the arrow tips.”

Casor snickered. “You’re not crazy? Who’s from the Legion of the Dead…?”

Before either of them could continue, they instinctively squatted as a lightning struck a tree next to them. They watched in awe as the wood burst into flames against the heavy rain.

“Forget I said anything. Hell that was close.” Casor said, getting up with a grunt. The leg that had snapped mere weeks ago sent up a jiggle of pain as a complaint. It seemed that his healing spell wasn’t entirely successful.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sigrun asked.

“I don’t, but those people in the tower might not have enough time. Gotta help.” he said as he shouldered a small backpack – this one filled with food and medical supplies. “And besides, you and I can both _hear_ _it_.”

“Just barely over the thunder, but yes.”

The Calling, the one that they had heard back in the Frozen Lands, was here again, like an annoying mosquito’s buzz. Casor wanted to squash it flat.

“I going to strike when I can. This storm is perfect for stealth, and you know how much I suck at stealth.”

The party had entered Village Casatium the previous night, and found it occupied by a sizable militia. Its leader introduced himself as Laeotan Osolun, a friend to the Laeotan Uririo of Casatium. He had come to this place to find out what happened to his friend. When he learned that the fort was filled with demons (“Twas’ foretold!” whispers the Seer in the background), he had sent word to the capital, asking for a permission to attack the bastion, which they got. However, they have had not much of a success, and were further delayed by the storm which made landfall a week ago. He told them that there was a group of survivors at the north tower, and that there were unconfirmed reports of a man entering the castle two weeks ago. Casor instinctively knew this was the demon they were searching for. Now, he could hear the Calling – distorted, and unfamiliar, like the one back in DaTel. Very faint, but still there…

“Here, drink this.” Casor handed Sigrun a blue-green mixture in a flask. Without hesitation, she took the bottle and gulped it in one swig. She gagged, practically screamed for water, and drank three bottles to clear her throat.

“What is it?” she croaked. Casor laughed.

“You drank it without asking? You looked like Oghren with beer. Heavy-duty Grounding potion. Ain’t easy to make.”

She scoffed, opening another bottle of water. “Please, I look much cuter than him.”

“Yes, you do.” he glanced at the sky, hoping that the rain would ease while simultaneously knowing it won’t. “Let’s go.”

“Excuse me for a minute. I must tend to my natural bodily functions.”

Casor let her run off into the privy, laughing again at how awkward it still was for her to ask permission to go to the bathroom. She had explained that it was because there were a lack of bathrooms in Ddust Town leading to… well, unpleasant smell in the street.

He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and stepped into the rain, letting his feet guide him to the main road. His hairs were on the end, agitated by the static that charged the air. The rain tingled his skin, cloyingly playing at his nervous heart. Despite his querulous mood, his body felt light, almost naked without his armor. It was amazing how unnatural he now felt without the griffon suit: there was something disturbing about the lack of resistance in his movements – a daunting confrontation of the concept of _freedom_. His arms were no longer weighed down by the metal. His back was no longer limited by the carapace. He was _unbound_ … and that, more than the lack of protection, scared him. He sighed at the tar-black midmorning sky, letting the sound of lightning take away exhaling plume of air.

“Good luck, Warden.”

Casor’s hairs, already on their tips, exploded down his spine. He spun to see (who else?) Tal behind him, caring naught for the incredible wind and rain that lashed against her. “Maker’s Breath! Tal, don’t _scare_ me like that.”

“It was not my intention to cause fright.” she replied. Casor wasn’t sure if that was her version of a joke.

“Alright. Sure, Miss Not-scary-at-all. Thank you. You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

“I wished to express my well-wishes. I understand that it is the customary of human manners.”

Casor laughed. Yup, Tal was making jokes.

“It is indeed. I see you are learning to socialize. Good for you.”

After their arrival, Casor had insisted that he wanted to enter the fort alone. Not only was the mission dangerous, but the added variable of a thunderstorm also made it impossible for him to protect a whole party with his barriers. He had only enough materials to make two bottles of grounding potion. Besides, the less people there were, the easier they could enter the fort undetected. Airen didn’t complain (after all, he was already whining about the rain despite his bravado few days ago), and Seer jokingly pleaded to take him for the ride before retreating into a deep slumber. Tal had nodded and pooft, while O’hana was already engaged in some sort of political discussion with the Laeotan. Sigrun, on the other hand, insisted on accompanying him, and Casor couldn’t dissuade her. So, she was now walking towards him through the storm.

Casor jerked up his head. “Hey, Tal, can you do something for me?” he lifted both hands behind his neck, trying with slippery fingers to unclasp his golden necklace. After much difficulty, he managed to pull the silver chain into his right hand, letting it coil up in a heap of soft argent light. “Could you look after this for me? I’m afraid to take it into the storm.”

Tal nodded solemnly. She didn’t seemed need an explanation. He poured the chain into her cupped hands and watched her wrap it in a piece of cloth. She placed it deep inside her overcoat pocket, patting it a few times to flatten it.

“It will be safe with me. May you triumph in your endeavor.”

She showed a rare smile before retreating off into the distance. A streak of lightning flashed across the sky again. Sigrun ran up to join Casor to march against the fortress.

…

The sky, impossibly, darkened further, the rolling thunder and ghastly flickers being the only source of light. These briefest flashes of lethal electricity were absolutely useless for illumination. Casor lost all sense of direction, having to rely on Sigrun’s Stone sense to find their way to the west wall. Since Sigrun never really had that much of a Stone sense, and because she had stayed overground for more than a decade, her internal map was barely better than his own. It was a miracle that they managed to make their way to the castle at all.

Stumbling like lost children in a foreign marketplace, they argued their way up the scaffold, somehow missing the demons that were supposedly patrolling the rubble. Finally reaching the inner parapets of the fort, the pair of Wardens quickly made their way to the west tower. They faced a dozen or so undead on the way, a battle made difficult by the lack of visibility. Casor dared not summon his weapons for the fear of revealing their position, and Sigrun’s bow was useless in complete darkness. The undead were in no better fighting condition, swinging their blades in random… well, more random than usual. The brutal dogfight ended when Casor had the bright idea of using the glyph of repulsion. The undead were flung over the edge, ending their second lives in a heap of disgusting squelch.

When they reached a tower’s entrance, they found the door hanging open.

Casor poked his head inside and shouted “Hello?”

Rumble! The thunder echoed within the stone walls. Still, no sign of life.

“Hellooooo?”

Sigrun tugged at his robes “Comman-bleh! Amell? It’s the next one over.”

When they reached the correct tower’s entrance, they found it barricaded. Neither a knock on the door nor a loud shout got a response.

“Should we break it down?”

They entered the first floor, leaving behind a contrail of water and other tiny bits.

“This looks more like it.”

The room showed hints of battle – burnt ground that marked a rage demon’s last scream, a blood splatter of some unfortunate fighter, and broken furniture all around. The room smelt rotten – even the heavy rain couldn’t flush out the stink of decay and stagnated air. No-one occupied the first floor, and the Wardens pushed their way through the barricaded stairwell and up into the next.

Casor was greeted by sobs of shock and sighs of relief as soon as he poked his head above into the second floor.

“Hello?”

It was a pitiful sight. Four survivors. One elf dressed like an Avaar, an elven man, a human girl and a male elderly human soldier. Their distinguishable characteristics were only skin deep, for they shared the look of the downtrodden, starved, cold prisoners. They were only slightly thin, but in all the wrong places – the sticks for arms, ever so slightly protruding cheekbones, shallow eyes. These weren’t the symptoms of starvation, but of trauma-induced weight loss. They sat on wooden pews, huddled around a small fire, the weapons they were holding forgotten on the floor.

The dark-skinned Avaar-dressed elf stood up. Casor hesitantly approached her, wary of her flashing scared eyes that stood out despite her enervated face. Sigrun followed him up the stairs, quickly unpacking her bag of supplies.

“ _Ma Serannas. En’an’sal’en …_ ” the elf mumbled. She seemed to sway on the spot, then, suddenly, she stood straight. She strode forward, stopping a mere breath away from him, her mouth set in a stern line. Her eyes no longer scatted, but focused against his own. Her startlingly tall elven height matched Leliana’s. Her next line was delivered with the bossiness of cleaning-mode Wynne, “About fucking time somebody showed up _._ ”

“ _Su tas ma._ ” he replied with a grin, unfussed by her sudden change in attitude.

The elf raised her eyebrow and tucked her hair back behind her ears. “ _Dirthas elvhen?_ ”

“ _Da’dirthan._ But my elven isn’t good enough for a proper conversation.” he replied. He was painfully aware of an incident back during the Blight when he had pronounced an elven name incorrectly and were nearly jumped by an angry hunter. Leliana’s spotty elven (but better-than-Casor’s elven) was the only thing that had saved his neck. There was no need to repeat that here.

“Your arrival is a welcome sunshine after a week of storm, though I need not remind you that you are a week late. I am Mirwen of Ausi.” she held out her hand. Casor shook it.

“I am Casor. Casor Amell. A Grey Warden.”

Her ears rose to follow her eyebrows. “Grey Warden?”

Casor internally kicked his brain for saying that in front of a stranger. Thankfully, Sigrun came to rescue by shoving a health poultice into the elf’s hands.

“Yes. We are Grey Wardens. I’m Sigrun, by the way. Eat. You’ll feel better.”

Sigrun bounced towards the other survivors, waving away their thanks and force-feeding them the health poultices. Mirwen gave him a bemused questioning look.

“She’s right. Eat. You’ll feel much better.” Casor said, himself pulling out a health poultice to eat. _Eat_ was indeed the right word – this paste wasn’t really drinkable. Mirwen looked suspiciously at the sticky red paste, shrugged, and poured it down her mouth.

Casor sat down in front of the group, breathing life into the dying fire with the flick of his fingers. The male elf gasped in surprise. “You’re a _Man’elan_?”

Casor kicked his head again for being offhand in front of strangers. But then again, this was his style, right? Lumber in, smash through dialogue, blunder through battle, get shit done, then walk out. Yes, that was him. He decided to go full out. “More accurately a _Lin'thanelan_ , _Ena'sal'in'amelan, Ala'syl'ise'man'thanelan_ and _Panathe'virelan_.” Others gave out a respectful whistle.

“Commander! I-can’t-speak-elven!” Sigrun said sarcastically.

“I said, I know how to do magic. And-” Casor stopped abruptly when a hand landed on his shoulder. He looked up to see the Mirwen looking at him with bloodshot eyes.

“Do you have lyrium?” she asked; almost demanded.

Casor did a quick scan of her demeanor. Trembling hands, abstained but desperate glare, lack of blood in her cheeks, and the clearly agitated expression. The symptoms were obvious for any mage to diagnose – lyrium addiction.

“I do, but I have very little of it.” He unclasped his belt and pulled it out, turning it around and around until he found the hidden opening. Reaching in with his fingers, he pulled out a tiny blue vial full of pure, high-quality liquid lyrium. Before he could say anything, the elf snatched the bottle out of his hands and drank it in one gulp. Though seemingly rude, Casor let it pass, knowing the side-effects of lyrium addiction. Both he and Wynne had to be extremely careful throughout the Blight to not to overindulge on lyrium during battle (every time he and Wynne calculated how much they had drunk that week, Morrigan would scoff and turn into a spider). Casor gave the elf an empathetic pat on the shoulder.

“At least it’s something.” She didn’t at all seemed vexed by her crude behavior. Casor was satisfied that her hand tremor had settled and turned his attention back to the survivors.

“You’re welcome. Now, unfortunately, we are not the rescue party” there was a sharp intake of breath around the room, “but do not worry, we have brought you enough supplies to last you three more days. Meanwhile, I will be out _there_ ,” Casor jabbed the air with his thumb, pointing towards the Casatium mains, “killing everything. You should be safe to come out within a day, after this storm clears up.”

An unexpected and very awkward silence filled the room, dominated by the noise of wind, rain, and thunder. The sun should have been climbing, but the sky was only getting darker.

“So… you are going to leave us?” one of the men asked. Casor nodded.

“Don’t worry. Sigrun will be with you.” he replied.

Sigrun spun around, her mouth half filled with food. “What?”

“No arguing, Sigrun. The storm is going to get worse before it gets better. I can’t even guarantee that _I_ will survive being hit by that lightning. My barrier can’t protect both of us. Moreover, these guys need your protection. That’s an order.”

Sigrun didn’t seem happy but she eventually relented with a dissatisfied “Alright.”

“Alright…?”

Sigrun smiled. “Sir.”

“Much better.” Casor stood up. “Good luck then. I’ll be off.”

The lyrium-addicted elf was there to stop him. “Wait.” she pushed him back down with a surprising amount of strength. “Explain exactly what you are doing. Tell me what’s happening out there.”

Casor was, at first, unable to answer, stunned by her bluntness.

“Well?” she repeated.

He finally shook himself out of the shock. Of course she would want some answers. She had been trapped here for more than a month – suddenly a pair of soldiers burst in, dump some supplies, and hurry out. It was his fault for assuming that they would be a-okay with his plan. He snickered quietly, acknowledging that his actions were just as rude as the elf’s.

“Yes, you are right. I should have told you what’s out there. First, dangers. There are few demons, but I didn’t see many of them. Some undead. Mostly slippery floor. However, your biggest enemy is that lightning storm. The likelihood of getting hit by that lightning is low.” As if on cue, a thunder roared outside the window. “Okay, okay. Getting hit by lightning is high. And getting hit is really bad news. Very dangerous. Barriers aren’t sufficient to keep you alive. Secondly-”

Casor was interrupted by yet another thunder, again outside the window. This time however, he did not continue his blabbering, and instead summoned Duty. Both he and Sigrun quickly made their way to the staircase, poised right above the second floor entrance. Sigrun had already drawn her bow, and Casor charged his flames in his hand. Mirwen ran to join them.

“What is it?”

Casor didn’t bother with a reply. He yelled, charging down the staircase, brandishing fire and spear against the Pride demon that crashed through the doorway of the floor below.

Codex Updated: Medicine (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874518/chapters/12945601)


End file.
